


Cleaving

by CeleritasSagittae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (at least when alistair's making them), (fortunately firiel doesn't find them offensive), ALL the implied smut, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Culture Shock, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, F/M, Flashbacks, Human Culture is Weird, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Linear Narrative, Painfully On-The-Nose Symbolism, Relationship Study, Religious Discussion, human sacrifice jokes, mostly accurate depiction of bow hunting, naked Alistair, none of the actual smut, which is less exciting than it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-01-07 05:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12226710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleritasSagittae/pseuds/CeleritasSagittae
Summary: The entire walk back from the alienage, all she can think of is the smell.  Sweat, waste, damp, decay—the smells of a city.   It’s a foreign smell that’s become too familiar, and the familiarity makes her stomach churn as much as the smothering press of people, the ambient clatter of too-heavy footsteps and wheels and voices (above all, voices), and the weight of her kinsmen’s despair.  Not even the estate will block it out.  She needs green, true green, and thevhenadahlwill not suffice.  So, after delivering her evidence, she returns to her room and trades her dragon leather for deerskin, Starfang for herdar’misu, and leaves.A tale of bonds formed, bonds severed, and the inevitable emotional crisis that occurs when you're the current Last and Best Hope of Thedas.





	1. Chapter 1

The entire walk back from the alienage, all she can think of is the smell.  Sweat, waste, damp, decay—the smells of a city.  She did not think that her people could smell so much like humans.  They are closer to the Dusters than they are to her.

It’s a foreign smell that’s become too familiar, and the familiarity makes her stomach churn as much as the smothering press of people, the ambient clatter of too-heavy footsteps and wheels and voices (above all, _voices_ ), and the weight of her kinsmen’s despair.  Not even the estate will block it out.  She needs green, true green, and the _vhenadahl_ will not suffice.  So, after delivering her evidence, she returns to her room and trades her dragon leather for deerskin, Starfang for her _dar’misu_ , and leaves.

He catches sight of her before she can slip out, and she sees the question in his eyes.  She kisses his cheek, and tells him she needs time to herself, that she’ll return quite soon, and no, he needn’t worry, she won’t abandon him and she can look after herself perfectly well, thank you.

She slips from his grasp before he can say more—then from the estate, from the market, from the city, from the surrounding farmland—until she finds a patch of forest she can pretend to be lost in.  Only then is she still, breathing in the scent of the trees until they chase the memory of the city from her mind.

* * *

 

_“We will be sleeping in the open fields tomorrow, then?”  Fíriel held onto her arms above her bracers as she peered out from the eaves of the wood._

_“Do not worry,” the human said.  “You are under the protection of the Grey Wardens now, and if we are discovered, I will keep you safe from harm.”_

_“I do not fear_ shemlen _mobs,” Fíriel replied.  “If anything, they should fear me.”_

_“That, I find, is why people generally form mobs,” Duncan said._

_Fíriel grunted, not wholly willing to concede the point.  Duncan may have been a friend to the clans, but he was not of the People, and he knew nothing of their struggles.  She would not show weakness around him._

_Truthfully, she feared discovery less than Duncan guessed.  The clan had traveled through_ shemlen _lands plenty of times, whether winging through fields of barleycorn beneath the moonlight or dropping a deer carcass on a freeholder’s stoop in exchange for his gleanings.  But never had they pretended to invoke the humans’ hospitality, as if they were welcome even as guests.  To sleep on lands claimed by mortals, as if their peoples were not opposed, as if she belonged with them—it was a second farewell, one just as difficult as the first.  She wondered how many farewells were yet to come, and how much of her would remain when they were all said._

_“There are Dalish Wardens buried at Weisshaupt,” Duncan said.  “It is a rare honor, considering how dangerous it can be to retrieve a Warden’s body from the field.”_

_“Does Lanthir rest there?  My Keeper told me he was treated with honor by your order, and that even today the_ shemlen _remember him.”_

_Duncan nodded.  “I’m afraid only the Anders and the Dalish remember his name, since he was one of many who rode with Garahel, but those who remember him revere his sacrifice.  I have seen the oak that stands over his grave.”_

_Fíriel did her best to mask her astonishment.  “I thought you burned your dead.”_

_“We do—but your people do not.  It is, alas, not a_ real _oak, but the stonework of the dwarves is still impressive.”  At her look of confusion, he added, “The Anderfels have suffered much under the Blights.  They can no longer sustain a tree’s roots.”_

_“Then he should have been buried in his homeland.”_

_“Perhaps.  But then people would wonder why the Dalish was not accorded the same honors as the rest of his company.”_

_Fíriel remained silent and clenched her jaw._

_“Garahel was an elf, too, though he was from a city.  He was very good at gathering those that everyone else had overlooked—perhaps because he had been overlooked himself.  He was a true Grey Warden.”_

_She looked at Duncan sidelong, certain he was trying to tell her something, impart some sort of deep and everlasting truth that she wasn’t keen on chasing at the moment._

_“You should get some sleep,” Duncan finally said.  “The sooner we can reach Ostagar, the sooner we may attempt your cure.”_

_Fíriel nodded, and set out her bedroll, though she doubted she would sleep easily.  Her heart was racing, and she didn’t know if it was from fear, excitement, or the poison coursing through her veins.  Lying down, she listened to the soughing of the wind through the trees and prayed it would soothe her soul._


	2. Chapter 2

She is not alone.  Of course she is not alone; she did not forbid the dog from following her.  Her breathing quickens for a few moments, until she decides that he can stay.  After all, he cannot speak to her.  Perhaps the one with no words will better understand that which she cannot express with her tongue.

She wonders, not for the first time, what his name was before they became one another’s.

* * *

_That night at camp, Fíriel scratched at Huan’s ears as he laid his giant, slobbering head on her lap.  Alistair had shown her how._

_It was a curious thing—none of the wolves she and Tamlen had hunted with would suffer themselves to be touched so, yet this hound still held some of their nobility in his eyes when she approached him at Ostagar.  And then he offered himself to_ her _, a service freely given._

_He was nothing like the dogs she had seen on the edges of_ shemlen _villages, and even less like Hahren Paivel’s tales—humans had taken wolves, broken their spirits, bred them to serve and, worse, to enjoy it, until there was nothing left in their world but Master and Mistress.  Yet, he’d added, buried deep within the dog the remnants of the wolf’s spirit remained, stirring from slumber at an idle scent, until, released into the wild, it could fully awaken once more._

_The wolf within this hound did not sleep, but somehow she knew that if she called him a wolf he would fuss at her considerably.  And wolves did not fuss, either.  He was in between, neither wild nor tame, and this made him bold enough to join her, not as a pet or a passing ally, but as a_ companion _, an equal._

_Under her scratching fingers, Huan’s ears felt stiff, rigid, proud.  Strange—she’d thought all dogs’ ears were flat._


	3. Chapter 3

It doesn’t fit anymore.

So lost was she on the shifting paths of her mind that she didn’t notice earlier, but she does now, and while it’s a comfort to be able to curl up in her armor again, the shoulder straps chafe and the gaps in her bootlaces pinch at her calves.

If she had stopped to think, surely she would have realized this.  She’s eaten better than she ever had among her clan, and while hunting may keep you limber, it’s no match for walking the length and breadth of Ferelden, fighting for your life all the way.

She’s lucky to be alive.  They all are.

* * *

_The night air actually carried a ribbon of chill, a welcome reprieve after another daylong, sweaty march.  Fíriel closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of gooseflesh on her skin and the smell of woodsmoke burying itself in her hair.  Out here, in the campsite, she could almost pretend she was at her lost home again—almost.  The sounds in her ears were too loud, and there was that feeling in her gut that never left her now, not as long as he was there._

_Alistair._

_Her heart swelled just a little, the treacherous thing, and she couldn’t help but tug at the connection they shared, savoring the physical reminder that he was there if she needed him—or if she just wanted to talk, really._

_He was seated at the coals of their cooking fire, staring at the pot nestled within as if he could speed the process by sheer will.  Did he look like that when he stared…_

_Fíriel shook her head, as if it were that simple to clear her mind.  She ought to have minded more, but she didn’t.  It was entirely contrary to expectation._

_This warranted further study.  It was_ not _a cause for alarm.  Hadn’t she decided she wanted to know where this would lead?_

_Fíriel made her way to his side and sat down, just close enough to let their pinkies brush.  “You were not entirely honest with me, Alistair,” she said, smirking._

_“What?” he said.  “Look, if this is about the last of the fowl, I_ swear _Huan set me up; that dog’s insidious—”_

_“That wasn’t the incident I was referring to._ You _, ser Warden, once told me that putting you in charge was a terrible idea because, and I quote, ‘bad things happen.’”_

_He gave her a bemused smile.  “You know, just because_ you _might find ‘me with no pants’ to be a good thing doesn’t mean it actually is.”_

_“That would depend on a good many things,” she replied.  “Still, you could have mentioned the great deal of pleasure you seem to derive from following me.  Specifically, the ‘following’ part.”_

_“What?”  His eyes widened.  “Oh, Maker, you_ heard _that?”_

_Fíriel grinned.  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since leaving my clan, it’s that humans think everyone else’s hearing is as bad as theirs.”_

_“I…”  He started scrabbling away from her, cherry-red, but she caught his hand.  “There is nothing I can say to make this go better for me, is there?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_Alistair groaned._

_“I mean, what about my front half?  Is my face that strange to you?”_

_“No, no, it’s not—”  He threw his hands into the air.  “Look, you heard it all already,_ apparently _, so can we just… pretend I_ didn’t _get caught staring at you like a lecher?  Maker,” he muttered, “it sounds even more absurd when I say it.  You know what?  I saw a nice mound of shame on the way here.  Let me just go and wallow in that for a few hours.”_

_She reached over to take his hand again, before he could put action to his words.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, although the whole thing_ was _ridiculous, and why had he been staring at her in the first place, anyway?  “Just… well, you can walk next to me, you know.  Your face is… rather pleasant to look at, and if you’re always behind me, sooner or later I’m going to walk into a tree and wake it up.”_

_“I… don’t think that’s how trees work.”_

_Fíriel chuckled.  “That’s what they want you to think.”_

_“Ri-ight…”  Alistair sighed.  “Fíriel, I’m sorry.  I really_ did _try not to stare, but… you’re lovely to behold, especially when you’re—well, doing_ anything _.”_

_“Not when I’m fighting, I hope!”_

_“Er…”_

_“Alistair, if you get yourself killed because you were_ gawking _at me I will find your soul in the Beyond, and when I’m through with it, you’ll wish you were in the Void.”_

_Alistair raised his eyebrows comically high and edged his hand from underneath hers.  “Right.  No staring at the scary, pretty lady while she’s gutting darkspawn.”_

_“Good man,” said Fíriel.  “I… don’t actually mind it terribly.  Just don’t get yourself hurt.  And I’d appreciate it if you could return the favor and walk alongside me sometimes.”_

_“Well,” he said.  “It’ll be a great hardship, but if the lady insists…”_

_“She does.  We’re in this together, Alistair.  We may as well support one another as best as we’re able.”  And she knelt up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek._


	4. Chapter 4

The sun is setting, but she can’t bring herself to turn back.

She did not bring any food with her.

Fortunately, the sky is clear, and the fallen wood in the forest is dry.  It will be no trouble to build a fire while the dog hunts.

She will hunt tomorrow, she decides.  The forest is deserted, and she’s seen no signs of prior habitation.  There will be much game, though with so little forest to go around, it may not be very large.

Her hands have taken over as she flecks the wood down to tinder with her hunting knife, humming softly to Sylaise.  It isn’t until she’s spinning two sticks together that she realizes how long it’s been since she’s done this.

* * *

 

_Safe in her tent, Fíriel finally looked down at the object in her hands—blinked, and looked at it again, until she was staring, lips parted, as if she’d never seen its like before—which was preposterous!_

_No._

_This couldn’t be real._

_This_ wasn’t _real.  She was_ not _miles away from her clan, and this was not a rose in her hands.  The man who gave it to her must have been a figment of her imagination.  It was the only reasonable explanation._

_She chuckled ruefully and shook her head.  No, she could never have imagined… having any level of interest in a human.  More than that—she couldn’t imagine a human having any interest in_ her _._

_A rare and wonderful thing…_

_When had this begun?  Worse, why was she encouraging it?_ Was _she encouraging it?  What had she said to him?  He didn’t_ seem _displeased, but she’d panicked at the thought of… anything, really, and of course he hadn’t known that by her people’s rules, he was treating her as if they were_ bonded _…_

_What did she want from him, anyhow?_

_No, she reminded herself.  This was her clan now, and he was her clansman—doubly so, as a Grey Warden and as part of this motley band.  It would not do for her to treat him like one of their would-be allies, giving favors with the expectation of something in return._

_Alistair was her_ clansman _._

_Her gaze fell to the rose again._

_It was not forbidden to court within the clan.  He could court her.  They could…_

_No, she wouldn’t think of that, not yet.  But it occurred to Fíriel that she wanted to know where this would lead, quite keenly, and she knew she would regret not making her intentions clear… if she could remember how._

_Leaving the rose in her tent, she ducked through the flaps and returned to him.  “Thank you for the rose, Alistair,” she said, and quickly kissed his lips. Then, before he could do anything beyond stare in shock, she turned her heel and went back inside._

You have my permission, Clansman.  Do what you will.


	5. Chapter 5

“Why is everyone convinced that this is _my fault_?” Alistair said, pacing.  Sundown was two hours ago, Fíriel was Maker knew where, and everyone who was still in the estate’s sitting room had gone jittery.

“She said she needed _time to herself_ , Alistair,” Leliana said patiently from her perch on the settee.  “If you had nothing to do with it, why aren’t you with her?”

“Because she asked me not to come!”  Maker, did he really have to state the obvious, here?  “I don’t see what the big problem is.  She said she’d be back.”

“When?”

“She… er, she didn’t say.”

“Splendid,” said Morrigan.  “Our illustrious leader has run off, with no hints as to where she is, or when she shall return.  Shall we form search parties now, or shall we wait till dawn?”

“Wait, you seriously think she’s in danger?  _Fíriel?_   She’s a _rogue_!  _I_ can’t find her half the time, and we’re both Wardens!”

Morrigan folded her arms and fixed him with a look that clearly ignored Fíriel’s capacity for stealth in favor of passing judgment on him.

“She broke both of us out of Fort Drakon and neither of us had to draw a blade,” he said, hoping he wasn’t pouting.  “Am I the only person here who thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , she might know what she’s doing?”

“Alistair,” said Zevran.  “I know I was not wholly myself after we returned from the alienage.”

Alistair ignored the main implications of his statement.  “See?  Someone else here gets it!  She found out Loghain was _selling her people to Tevinter_?  No, that can’t be why she’s upset!  It must be _Alistair’s_ fault.”  He stalked over to one of the armchairs and flung himself into it.

“It was a reasonable assumption to make,” Eamon said from the back.  “She is quite taken with you.”

He looked at the arl blearily.  “You don’t get it, do you?  You don’t _know_ her.”

“Not so well as you,” said Eamon, not unkindly.  “But… she has proven herself to be capable.  I am sure she will come to no harm.  Still, in the unlikely event that she has… the best thing to do may be to proceed as originally planned.  We cannot afford to give Loghain the time to mount a defense.”

“ _What_?” Alistair yelped.

“And if, Maker forbid, the Warden _is_ in danger, we will be better equipped to help her with the resources of the Crown at our disposal.”

“But—but she’s done all the work up to this point!” he cried, hating how he sounded like he was ten years old all over again.  _No whining, Alistair_.  “We’re not doing this without her.”

“If she does not return, we may not have a choice in the matter,” came Wynne’s voice from the corner of the room.

_What?_   Wynne had been with them almost from the beginning; how could she think Fíriel wouldn’t—  “Look, we don’t even know if she’s in danger!  And, if she somehow is, and somehow _can’t_ get out of it on her own, which I would like to state for the record that I sincerely doubt is even possible with her—what’s to say Loghain won’t hurt her if we act too quickly?”

“Alistair is right,” Leliana said, “as is Morrigan.  We cannot proceed until we have more information.  If she hasn’t returned by morning, why don’t we try to discover where she is, and go from there?”

“ _Thank you_ ,” said Alistair.  “For all we know, she’s already back in her room because she thought it’d be funny to break in and see how long it’d take for us to notice.”

The idea made so much sense that he’d half convinced himself it was true by the time he poked his head into her bedchambers and found it empty, bed fully made.  Tentatively, he stepped inside—it was hardly improper if she wasn’t _in_ the room, after all, was it?  There was still no trace of her, though, not even under the bed.  She hadn’t even bothered to put her regular armor away.

He hoped she was all right, wherever she was.  True, it was a bit strange that she hadn’t come back yet, but after everything she’d done for all of them, all those silly little personal bequests that she’d still taken the time to look into, the least they could do was give her what she needed.  And if what she needed was time?  Then he’d give it to her, in a heartbeat.

Maker knew she needed it—it was a wonder, really, that she hadn’t cracked earlier, between Zathrian and Tamlen and the broodmother… but she hadn’t.  She’d worked through her pain, toughed out the rest, and kept them all together, turning them into a force that could stop a Blight itself, his beautiful, fierce Warden, their _leader_ …

Damn.  Maybe it really _was_ his fault.

And so it was that when Alistair returned to his room, he ignored all the parts of him that were saying this was a terrible idea, sat down at the desk, and began to write.


	6. Chapter 6

She sleeps untroubled through the night, and it is a blessing.  She cannot remember the last time she did _this_ , either, because the estate does not count: it is indoors, and a coverlet piled on the floor is a poor substitute for grass.

Opening her eyes, already smiling at the thought of a morning to herself, she notices the size of the leaves unfurling, which flowers are in bloom.  It is warmer here than the Brecilian Forest, but surely the _Or’eshar_ has already passed, though she was not aware of it at the time.  The last holiday she celebrated was Midwinter, only it was under a different name, with different customs.

No—no, she will not think of such things here.  She has neither Keeper nor clan, but she _shall_ celebrate the feast, even if it is weeks late.  She will celebrate it, and then she will return.

Not today, though—tomorrow.

Today, she hunts. 

* * *

_Fíriel fell silent at Alistair’s question, trying to make sense of the myriad feelings it had somehow unleashed.  Leaning back on her hands, she tilted her face up to the sky to keep the tears in her eyes, and listened to the crackle of firewood and the night birds’ calls._

_“Right!  Well, this got awkward quickly.  You can just… forget I asked; I didn’t mean to trouble you.”_

_“No, it’s all right,” Fíriel said, closing her eyes.  “My home is with the Grey Wardens—with you.”_

_“Hmm,” he said.  “A tragedy, to be sure.  I mean, half the time_ I _can’t stand the thought of being around me for the rest of my life, and I’m_ me _…”_

 _“Alistair, it’s not—you’re one of the few_ good _things about all this.  It’s just…”_

_She heard his faint laughter next to her._

_Fíriel opened her eyes and glared at him._

_Alistair held up his hands.  “Sorry, sorry!  You were just—you thought I was serious?”_

_Her eyes narrowed._

_“I mean, I can see why you’d think so, but…_ ouch _.  Also, that death glower thing you have going is_ really _effective; have you tried using it on the darkspawn?”_

 _“_ Alistair. _”_

 _“Sorry.”  He sighed.  “I meant it, though, when I said I didn’t mean to distress you.  Sometimes I forget that not everyone was as eager to join the Wardens as me.  And… you don’t know what it’s like to be a Warden when it_ isn’t _the end of the world, so… of course your perception of it’s going to be different.”_

_“Well,” she said.  “It’s better than the alternative, isn’t it?  For me, at least.”_

_“Wait, you_ didn’t _want the Taint to claim you?”_

 _Fíriel snorted, then fell silent, listening once more to the sounds of the night.  “Duncan didn’t have to invoke the Right of Conscription,” she said quietly.  “Maybe that’s not surprising to you, but—the truth is, part of me_ did _believe that a year with the clan was better than a lifetime apart.  Maybe a part of me still does.”_

_“Fíriel…”_

_“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said. “To abandon what we hold onto for a world of mortals…  Exile from the clan can be a fate worse than death._

_“But, Keeper Marethari told me otherwise.  Joining the Grey_ didn’t _have to mean I was leaving my clan; rather, it meant I could serve the clan in a way that no one else could.  So I resolved to become as good a Grey Warden as I am an alchemist, or a hunter—if not better—because this was my new role to the clan.  And I left them.”_

_“That was brave of you.”_

_“Maybe,” Fíriel said.  “But… what if my Keeper lied to me, Alistair?  What if I can’t go back, ever?”_

_“What, not even to visit?  I mean… if we’re chasing this ‘we both survive the Blight against all odds’ thing to its unlikely conclusions, we may as well have fun with it.”_

_She shook her head.  “It wouldn’t be the same._ I’m _not the same.  That time in my life is dead and buried, and to return to them, to bring my corruption to their innocence…”  She sighed.  “Keeper Marethari made it sound so easy: serve the clan through the Wardens.  The Wardens_ are _my clan now._ You _are my clan.  And, since we don’t have any other Wardens in Ferelden right now, I suppose the rest of our band is my clan as well.  I should be happy—it’s more than other exiles get.”_

_“But you’re not, are you?”_

_“Not right now,” said Fíriel._

_“Well,” said Alistair, reaching over and patting her hand twice.  “_ I’m _glad you’re a Grey Warden.  And I’m glad you’re with me.  But just because you’re a Warden now doesn’t mean you have to give up all of who you are.”_

 _She chuckled.  “You make it sound so easy.  Do you_ realize _how many times I’ve heard ‘Maker be with you’ over the past month?  I understand they mean well, but—last time I checked, I didn’t_ look _like the average Chantry-goer.”_

_Alistair laughed.  “If you went to the Chant dressed like that, you’d make the Revered Mother’s eyebrows crawl right off her face.  Actually, would you hate if it I asked you to do that?  It’d make it the best Chant I ever attended.”_

_“Yes,” said Fíriel._

_“Ah, well, it was worth a shot.  I’ll tell you what—you tolerated me nattering on about every little thing in Redcliffe while we were there.  Why don’t you show me around when we talk to the Dalish?”_

_He was kind,_ so _kind to her.  At first, she’d thought it was more because she was the last remaining Warden (after all, he hardly knew her!), but lately she was beginning to think it was just who he was.  “You don’t have to do that, Alistair.  No one really cares about our customs, and they care about our gods just long enough to scream ‘heathen’ in our faces.”_

_“Do the Dalish spend three hours each week listening to a Chanter drone the same thing over and over?”_

_She gave him a perplexed look.  “No.  Why would we?”_

_“Sounds like the ‘heathens’ have already got a leg up on the Chantry, then.”_

_“Wait, that wasn’t a joke?  They actually_ do _that?”_

_“Oh, it’s better when you’re training to be a templar.”  He clasped his hands together.  “Then you get it every day!”_

_“You poor man.  No wonder you wanted to join the Wardens.”_

_Alistair smiled.  “_ Definitely _better than the alternative.  Not that being a templar_ quite _compares to a life painfully shortened by Blight sickness, of course.”_

_“I’m glad you clarified,” said Fíriel, smirking, “because otherwise I’d have had to strike you.  Do you truly wish to learn of my people, though?”_

_“Yes!  I know… next to nothing about the Dalish, and I admit I’m curious as to what sort of people could have produced a woman like you.”_

_“All right,” she replied.  “And… thank you, for your understanding.”_

_“Of course.  It’s the least I could do, after what you’ve done for me.  Besides… I’m part of your clan now, right?”_

_“Yes,” Fíriel said, affirming it for herself more than him._

_“Good.  Just… as long as you don’t ask me to get my nose tattooed.  That looks like it_ hurt _.”_

 _And even though it was sacrilege for a human to bear_ vallaslin _, Fíriel laughed at the image of him under the Keeper’s needle all the same._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of town for the weekend, so you get this one early--enjoy!

She finds the fawns, first, still being led by their mother.  The day is young, though, and even if the herd in this wood needs thinning, she has never enjoyed killing the young.  A stag may be tough, but the feasts are times for pausing, and slow cooking can make any beast tender.

She is surprised to find a salt lick deeper in the wood.  It is not like the licks she knows from the campsites her clan traveled to; it’s been… carved?  And the stone looks more akin to what they saw at Soldier’s Peak than anything around Denerim.

She frowns as the implications settle, and shakes her head.  Only humans would think of keeping a forest around specifically to hunt.

She’s worked up the faintest sweat in the sunlight, so she places herself downwind of the lick before climbing into one of the trees and waiting, keen to see how well the humans’ forest works.

An hour later there’s a yearling in front of her—perfect.  Lifting a prayer to Andruil, she draws, and looses.

She sighs with relief even as she alights from the boughs.  She has not forgotten the _Vir Assan_.  The deer runs, but she gives chase.  It is only a matter of time before its wound is too much to bear.

The yearling looks at her as she plunges her knife into its heart. 

* * *

 

_“His name was Tamlen.”_

_Over and over again, she felt her blade sinking into his gut.  He had known her again as he’d breathed his last, a whispered “_ Ma seran _...” before the blood gurgling from his throat had overwhelmed him._

_It was as if a bowstring had snapped, lacerating the side of her face, and unbidden a memory arose, of Master Ilen drilling them, over and over, on the criticality of regular bow maintenance._

_Even if nobody else could see the wounds, Fíriel was bleeding._

_“We held a funeral for him, after Duncan said he wasn’t returning,” she said.  “It was the last thing we did before I left.  It seemed so wrong, not having a body to bury…”_

_She felt the hands on her arms tighten a little more.  “I’m so sorry, my dear,” Alistair said from behind her.  “But if he bears the Taint…”_

‘Since,’ not ‘if,’ _she thought to herself, and Tamlen’s fevered eyes stared back at her as he raised his blade._

_“Then we’ll burn his body in a pit, and bury him after,” said Fíriel.  “Does Bodahn sell spades?”_

_“I’ll let you borrow it, my lady,” said Bodahn.  She hadn’t even heard his approach.  “Though you should probably wait until—”_

_“No,” she said.  “He should have been buried months ago.  Give me the spade.”_

_Alistair moved his arms to her waist.  “Fíriel…”_

_“_ Give me the spade! _”_

_She slapped his arms away, snatched Bodahn’s spade from his hand, and began to dig.  Alistair asked her once if she was feeling a little tired, but when she snapped that she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight anyway, he retrieved the camp shovel they’d been using for the latrines and helped in silence._

_They were halfway through when Sten came and stood next to her.  “You are wasting time.”_

_Fíriel raised her bloodshot eyes to him and leaned on her spade for a moment.  “No.  I’m not.”_

_“The Blight will not delay while you mourn.”_

_“We were attacked.  We need a day to rest.  And he was a friend, and a good hunter.  He deserves the rites of our people.”_ Even if I have to burn him first.

_Sten merely grunted._

_“If you don’t want us to tarry further you can go and find a sapling—old enough to have survived, but young enough that it can be moved.  Dig around its roots, but don’t move it yet.”_

_“The dwarf does not have another spade.”_

_“Then find a staff of oak and a cedar branch, and…  Alistair, help Sten._ Please _,” she added, at the look he gave her.  She was worrying him, a small part of her realized, but she had just killed Tamlen and he could not help her._

_Morrigan lit the body once the pit was dug.  Leliana opened her lips—to speak or to sing, Fíriel knew not which—but Fíriel stayed her until the ashes had cooled.  Once the first spadeful of earth dusted his charred corpse, though, the bard was no longer silent, and Fíriel knew the song._

_Alistair pried the shovel from her numb fingers as she sank to her knees, and the tears finally spilled from her eyes._

_She had heard the funerary rites many times growing up, but Keeper Marethari had always been the one to say them._

_She knew the words were there,_ somewhere _in the depths of her memory, but all that came out was Falon’Din’s name, over and over again, as she begged the trapped god to guide her_ lethallin _through the Beyond._

_She felt a pair of strong arms embrace her, and she lost herself as she cried into his shoulder, but he thought she was mourning only the loss of a friend._

_She had forgotten the words._

She had forgotten the words.

_And, as she retreated from the freshly turned earth and the linden tree nestled within it, the sun rising in the distance, all she could think to say was, “Falon’Din guide you,_ lethallin _.”  The_ shemlen _words on her lips filled her with shame._


	8. Chapter 8

She guts the yearling with practiced hands and bears it back to the site where the fire is still banked.  The dog springs towards her from his guard’s post, and she has to bat his paws away from the fresh meat.  She brought so little with her that she must use the leather thong in her hair to hang the corpse, and as she shakes her hair free she imagines his hands running through, the whisper of his breath in her ear.  She shudders a little.

It has been too long.

The clack of a beak sounds next to her and she is startled to find a raven sitting a few feet away on the bough she’s tying the deer’s hooves to.  It’s staring at her.

She reaches into the carcass and cuts off a piece of meat, offering it to the bird.  It merely _looks_ at her, clacking its beak again, and she flings the meat to the dog.

She smiles.  “Concerned, Morrigan?”—and she is startled at the sound of her own voice.  “ _Ma serannas_.  I didn’t know you had it in you.”

The raven tosses its head in the air and stretches its wings, but she holds up a hand before she can transform.  Strange that right now, it is easier to talk to her when she is a bird.

“I’ll come back when I’m ready,” she says, as if _that_ explains anything.  It is the only explanation she can give, though.  “Don’t tell him—”  She sighs; normally she is cannier than this.  “Don’t tell them where I am.  If I have need, I’ll send for them.”

The raven croaks at her, and she knows the bird is displeased.  “Please, I just—”  She gasps in air, stifled by something she can’t even name.  “I need to think.  I’ll need all my mind for the Landsmeet, and I’ll need it whole.  And no, you can’t help.  This is—”  _This is something I must do alone_ , she thinks, but as soon as the words enter her mind she knows them for the lies they are.  “This is something you can’t help with.  You’d just make it take longer.  And the last thing we need is Eamon writing me off for dead and starting it without—”  _Oh._   “He hasn’t, has he?  Does—do I need to—”  She turns helplessly back, hands still slick with blood.

The raven flies from the bough and lands, facing her, preventing her escape.

She slumps with relief.  “Tell them I’m safe, and free.  And that I’m sorry for worrying them.  I just—”  The words won’t come.  “Tomorrow.  Give me today and tomorrow, and I swear I’ll return to it all the day after.  Just… not now.  I can’t.”

The raven bobs its head once, and takes to flight.

She leans her back against the tree trunk, content to surrender her speech once more. 

* * *

 

_The second time Fíriel finished speaking to Zathrian, she was miserable—and she didn’t know whether it was her fault, for not being able to trust a Keeper’s word anymore, or his.  Beasts should not be able to talk._

_Her thoughts consumed her so much that she did not notice Alistair’s presence in the camp till she walked right past him—and even then, it wasn’t so much her eyes noticing him as her gut.  Sometimes, if she closed her eyes just before the darkspawn attacked, she thought she could distinguish the Taint in his blood from theirs._

_He was sitting some distance away from Hahren Sarel, well behind the children crowded around the teacher.  Fíriel listened to the tale just long enough to place it—the fall of the Dales.  The_ hahren _’s eyes lingered on Alistair whenever he spoke of the_ shemlen _’s treachery._

_She sat down next to him—not as close as she’d like, but enough to show anyone with eyes to see that she trusted the man.  “What are you doing here?” she whispered._

_Alistair fixed her with what could be best described as a defensive pout.  “I was bored,” he said.  “_ And _curious.  I know you warned me, but I still wasn’t quite expecting—this.”  He tipped his head in Hahren Sarel’s direction.  “You were kinder, by comparison.”_

_Fíriel snorted.  “Of course I was.  I wasn’t about to pick a fight in enemy territory.”_

_“So… it_ wasn’t _my stunning good looks and charming with that won you over.  I’m_ crushed _.”_

_“Alistair…”  She wasn’t quite able to keep the irritation from her voice.  Running a hand over her face, she took a deep breath and willed herself to be better.  “You didn’t call me a knife-eared savage or ask me to scrub your boots.  That helped.”_

_They listened together to the last remaining words of the_ hahren _’s tale.  “We are the last of the Elvhenan; never will we submit,” Fíriel echoed with the children._

_She closed her eyes, but the presence at her side couldn’t be ignored so easily.  Clan Arrasil was not her clan, and she was not alone._

_“Hahren Paivel liked to make me help him teach the_ da’len _.  I took the job very seriously—it’s our heritage, after all—but my mind would get away from me and come up with something outlandishly clever, and before I knew it, the_ da’len _were laughing and the_ hahren _muttering about if my father could see me now.”  And Tamlen, who’d probably egged her on, was making faces at her from behind the bushes._

_“It’s good to see you like this,” said Alistair, and she gave him another cautioning look even as guilt bubbled up in her stomach.  “I mean… here, I can imagine what it was like for you—before.”_

_She nodded once.  “It was a good life.  But I was a child.”  She chuckled, far too easily, and as the words spilled from her lips she remembered that_ this _was why she hadn’t taken him with her to the camp. “If you’d stumbled upon us then, I would have drawn my bow on you.”_

_He gave her an exaggerated frown.  “That’s not very nice.  Would I have looked like a pincushion to you?”_

_“Oh, I wouldn’t have_ killed _you.  Maybe required a change of trousers, but I never did like killing_ shemlen _that meant no harm.”  She paused.  “‘Humans,’ sorry.  Old habits coming back.”_

_The children had scattered, most of them drifting back to the sick ward, leaving the two of them sitting in the middle of camp for no apparent reason.  Alistair’s stomach rumbled.  He stretched, and stood.  “Well, if that isn’t a sign to head back, I don’t know what is.  I doubt—”_

_“_ No _, Alistair.  You’re a guest—avoiding our hospitality is an insult.”_

_“But—”_

_“Creators, we’re not going to_ poison _you,” she muttered._

_“I know that!”  He offered a hand to help her up._

_“Thank you,_ lethallin _,” she said loudly, and after she rose she released his hand quickly.  “We’ll be able to eat in half an hour—assuming you can hold out that long.”_

_“Only if you can.”_

_They began wandering around the camp, Fíriel knotting her hands behind her back lest she be tempted to touch him.  There was a question in Alistair’s eyes as she paused at each of the statues of the Creators, but she held her tongue.  “I’d have lowered my bow once you said you were a Warden,” she finally said._

_“Thank the Maker for small mercies, then.”_

_“Thank the Grey Wardens.  Actions hold great meaning for us, and our memories are long.  Don’t worry about their opinions of you—you’ll prove yourself easily, I’m sure.”_

_“Well, it’s hardly the first time I’ve been faulted for existing.  Almost makes me homesick.”  He reached up to wipe an imaginary tear from his eye._

_She reached over to take his hand, but stopped herself halfway and grabbed her elbow instead._

_Alistair took a deep breath.  “All right,” he said quietly.  “How did I mess up, and what can I do to make it up to you?”_

_“_ What? _”_

_“Or… maybe there isn’t anything I can do, and that’s_ fine _; I know you said you didn’t care that I’m human, and Maker help me, I think you meant it at the time, but—”_

_Fíriel recovered from her shock in just enough time to stop him.  “We’ll speak of this elsewhere, Alistair.”  She led him to the edge of the camp, about fifty paces from where they had pitched their own tents._

_He reached out for her hand, but she folded her arms, hating at how closed off it made her feel._

_“Fíriel,” he said, “I… care for you, greatly, but… well, a Blight_ is _the worst possible time to try this, right?  Maker knows we have enough on both our plates, and if I’m just making things worse for you then maybe I should just—”_

_“Don’t you_ dare _,” said Fíriel.  “Not unless you mean it.”_

_“All right,” he said with a nervous laugh.  “That’s the worst case scenario out of the way.  Can you tell me what I did wrong, now?”_

_“_ Nothing _.  You’ve done nothing wrong, Alistair.”_

_“Oh.  I… I see?”_

_“I just—I thought Zevran should know where his mother came from, and Morrigan would be more at home in the woods—although Gheyna and Cammen made me rethink that pretty quickly—and I know you can’t stand Morrigan...”  She sighed.  “I promise I haven’t forgotten your suggestion earlier.”_

_“Really?”  His eyes lit up.  “Because I_ am _still interested, if you are.”_

_“I am.  I want to show you everything, Alistair, and I was going to, but that was all before…”_

_“Before…”_

_Fíriel stamped her foot.  He was going to make her actually say it, wasn’t he?  “I don’t want them to see the way I look at you,” she said quickly.  “_ I _may not care that you’re human, but they will.  Master Varathorn said it was clear I was still Dalish when I told him to keep all the ironbark, and… I felt so_ proud _.  If they find out… I’d be nothing more than a Grey Warden to them—respected, but shunned, exiled.  Not one of the People._ Ir abelas _— I never meant to let it hurt you.”_

_“Oh,” he said.  “Well, that makes a perfect amount of sense, doesn’t it?  I’m sorry; I should have realized they wouldn’t approve of me.”_

_She smiled.  “I’m sure they’ll approve of_ you _, Alistair.  But you’re still a_ shem _, and you always will be.  They would exile me a second time over.”_

_He raised his hand briefly before lowering it back to his side; Fíriel could tell he was restraining himself from reaching for her.  “Exile?  Over what, a few kisses and a rose?”_

_And countless battles fought in one another’s rhythm, whispered conversations over too many watches, nightmares soothed by a heartbeat heard through a broad chest…  Fíriel snorted.  “That’s a massive understatement, but it doesn’t matter.  Any… attachment… to someone not of the People is a danger to the clan, because it might encourage others to do the same.  We are diminishing, beset by enemies on all sides, and every elf that falls for a human is as much of a loss to the clan as a death.  Worse still, for a woman and a man, because it turns us into the breeders of our own enemies.”_

_“Ah,” said Alistair.  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”_

_“Of course you wouldn’t,” Fíriel replied.  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”_

_“Does that bother you?  The… human baby thing, I mean.”_

_She reached up to rub at a part of her shoulder.  “I… hadn’t really given it much thought—unless you mean to say a few kisses and a rose will give me one?”_

_“No!  Why does everyone always assume I don’t—”  He huffed and gave her a tiny glare.  “One, I’m onto you, and two, you know exactly what I mean.”_

_“Then,” said Fíriel, “if it should ever come to that, I won’t let it bother me.  You’re my clan now, remember?”_

_Alistair smiled at that.  “Well, on the off chance that it does, allow me to put your fears to rest.  As long as you’re with me, you’ll never have to worry about babies of any kind.”_

_“Wait.  You can’t sire children?  But how would you know if you’ve never—”  She clapped a hand to her mouth, surprised to feel a current of disappointment laced beneath the pity.  “Oh…”_

_“_ We _can’t have children,” he said hastily.  “That is, if we were to…”  He broke off, blushing, and started over.  “_ Wardens _can’t have children.  The… stuff that they result from, there aren’t any problems with that—in fact, according to the highly detailed and entirely unsolicited testimony of my brothers in arms, that part’s supposed to go… better.  Not that I have any practical experience, mind you,” he added, coughing.  “But as for the children themselves, it’s… been heard of, for one Warden to conceive a child with an untainted partner, but it’s difficult.  None of the Wardens I knew had had any after they’d joined.  With_ two _?  The word you’re looking for is ‘impossible.’”_

_“Oh,” said Fíriel, and while her smile was relieved a small part of her suddenly felt empty.  “Well, I_ would _hate to swaddle babies in the Deep Roads.”_

_“Wow, same here!”  He laughed.  “Do you know, I think you actually made the Deep Roads sound worse!  You’re… not too put out by it, though, are you?”_

_She peered into the forest, not trusting her expressions otherwise.  “I don’t know how I feel about it,” she said.  “It’s something I’ll have to think on.”_

_He nodded.  “I’m—well, I’m glad I have a sister, and nieces and nephews—and,” and here she knew he was smiling broadly, even if she durst not look at his face, “I’ll finally get to meet them all, once we’re finished here!  I did thank you for that, didn’t I?_ Thank _you, in case I didn’t.”_

_“No need to thank me till it’s done,” she replied.  “Besides, did you really think I wouldn’t make time for it?”_

_After the supper meal, back in their camp and safe from the prying eyes of her kin, Fíriel curled up against Alistair in front of the fire, leaning her head on his shoulder and twining her hands with his._

_“Let’s spar tomorrow,” she said.  “In front of the clan.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“Actions hold great meaning to us.  Prove yourself the doughty warrior that you are, and you’ll earn the clan’s respect.  We’ll talk to Zathrian’s first, too—she wanted to know if any of the_ shemlen _regretted what happened to us.  And,” she added, yawning, “there must be so much work left undone with so many of the clan languishing.  Once the curse is broken, I can help replenish their poultices, and you can help fix some of the_ aravels _.  The others too, I suppose.”_

_He let out a baffled laugh.  “Why all the effort?”_

_“You are my brother Warden, and I want them to esteem you as much as I do.  And… if, one night, they should see me telling you of our gods and our way of life, perhaps they won’t think it amiss.”_

_“Just your brother Warden, though?”_

_She nodded.  “That won’t change.  You’re still a_ shem _, after all.”_ But you’re _my shem, she thought._

_“So,” said Alistair, smothering a yawn, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—what_ does _‘_ shem _’ mean, anyhow?”_

_“Quick-blooded,” she said absently.  “Mortal.  I mean—we’re mortal, too, now, but we didn’t start out that way.  It’s just another thing you humans took from us.”  She sighed.  “It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.  With everything changing so fast, I don’t know that I could handle forever.”_

_“That’s good,” he said, running his thumb over her knuckles.  “We can’t give each other forever.”_

_And maybe it was because of Gheyna and Cammen, but the Vows of Bonding ran through her mind and she wondered if_ shemlen _and_ elvhen _souls went to the same destination through the Beyond.  “Can’t we?”_


	9. Chapter 9

Come noon, Zevran had returned from Fort Drakon, confirming what the rest of them suspected: wherever Fíriel was, it wasn’t _there_.  Alistair had tracked down Sergeant Kylon, and Leliana had mingled in the Market District, and according to their respective sources Fíriel had left the city shortly after her conversation with him yesterday.  It certainly boded well for her safety.  After that, he’d made a trip to the campsite they’d used on their first visit to Denerim, too cheap to get rooms (though Zevran managed for himself quite nicely)—but there was no sign of her, and the call in his blood went unanswered.  The only other piece of good news was that Sten had finally pointed out that no one had seen Huan since yesterday, either.

But despite all signs pointing to Fíriel’s safety, she still wasn’t _here_ , and Arl Eamon was getting antsy.  Not that Alistair could entirely blame him—even _his_ confidence was wavering (though surely, _surely_ she knew what she was doing!)—and Eamon didn’t know Fíriel; didn’t _love_ her…

So, Alistair reread the note he’d written last night, and delivered it to Erlina, just in case the arl decided not to wait.

> _To Her Royal Majesty Queen Anora:_
> 
> _If I knew the first thing about politics, I’d be really clever about this, but I don’t, so here I go._
> 
> _I don’t want to be king.  You don’t want me to be king.  I have it on good authority (hers, as in, she told me this) that Warden Fíriel doesn’t want me to be king.  However, she is currently attending to a personal matter, depriving the “Alistair for Not King” camp of a very strong voice.  If you can make sure that Arl Eamon doesn’t call the Landsmeet until she’s returned, I would be incredibly grateful._
> 
> _Your loyal subject,_
> 
> _Alistair_

The instant it was out of his hands he regretted it, of course—he may not know the first thing about politics, but he was fairly certain that it wasn’t a good idea to leave oneself indebted to the queen.  Still, better than the alternative.

_Maker watch over you, my love.  And bring you back to me once you’re feeling better._   He slumped on one of the many couches in the sitting room.  It did wonders for your self-confidence as a man, having your lady all but tell you that the best thing you could do for her was _nothing_.

The door opened, and he blearily raised his head, glaring once he realized who it was.  _Morrigan_.

“Two days,” she said.

“What?”

“Two days, and she will return.”

He groaned.  “All right, did you do some sort of creepy, witchy ‘know the future’ thing, or are you just mocking me?”

Morrigan laughed.  “I cannot divine the future, Alistair.  There are not nearly enough birth cords at hand for such a ritual.”

Alistair shuddered.  She was joking, right?  She had to be…

“And yes, you fool, _now_ I am mocking you.  I found her.”

He stood up, knocking his legs against the couch in his haste.  “You found her?  _How_?  _Where is she?_ ”

“Yes, I found her, and she asked me not to reveal her location.  If she has need of you, she will send for you.”

“But—”

“And as for how—let us just say that where there is smoke, there is a fire.”

He sank back onto the couch.  “I didn’t realize you _cared_ ,” he said, more to mask the jealousy burning hot inside than anything else.

“Hardly,” said Morrigan.  “Rather, if she is not here, our chances at the Landsmeet plummet, and it would be a shame, after all this effort, to see it come to naught.  You cannot honestly believe we would fare well with _you_ speaking on our behalf.”

Alistair was not about to belabor that point, as much as it stung coming from her.  “In that case,” he said, waving her on with an idle hand, “make sure you tell Eamon so he doesn’t call it without her.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “And not a word after your Warden’s well-being?  So callous of you, Alistair; I thought you were _fond_ of her…”

“No, I was just pretty sure that you weren’t capable of discerning her feelings, since you’d have to have some to tell what they were.”

Morrigan sighed.  “She told me to say she is safe, free, and sorry for worrying you.  And she will be back in two days.”

Two days.

He could handle that.


	10. Chapter 10

There are vines in the forest.  They harm the trees, of course, but she is grateful for their presence—it is either this, or dig a pit with a spade she doesn’t have, if she wishes tomorrow’s meal done properly.  The dog brings her a brace of hares, and she roasts them over the fire while she cuts the vines and strips their lives.  Willow branches from the stream watering the wood bend easily enough for her to make a frame.

For the rest of the day, she gathers brush, logs, flowering boughs, everything she can think of for tomorrow that the wood has to offer.  Then she banks the fire, curls next to the dog for warmth, and dozes.

* * *

_Time had no meaning in the Deep Roads.  It was Fíriel and Alistair and the darkspawn and their goal, the outside world fixed in amber until their return._

_Time had no meaning in the Deep Roads, so they were always together here—always Wardens, always lovers, as long as they stayed._

_Time had no meaning, and so when they left, time would come rushing back to meet them, lashing their faces like branches in a windstorm.  He would again be the claimant to the throne—(blast him and double Eamon; how was she to know how_ shemlen _politics actually_ worked _?)—and she the bow bent to breaking, apprehending her release with every breath._

_She had tried to speak with him about it once, twice, three times, but when he didn’t play dumb he just said he didn’t want to talk about it, that talking would make it worse, and couldn’t they worry about tomorrow tomorrow?_

_Alistair was very good at deluding himself when he wanted to, but Fíriel wasn’t, which was why she was currently weeping silently in his arms, as she did every night they made love in this Void-stricken place.  Or was it day?  Time had no meaning here._

_He whispered nothings in her ear as he stroked her hair, and she didn’t know if his concern helped or hurt._

_“We’ll come back here together, won’t we?” she murmured into his skin.  “No matter what happens?”_

_He reached down and tilted her chin up to look into her eyes.  “Hmm?”_

_“We didn’t Join that far apart, so when the dreams come for one of us I imagine the other can’t be too far behind.  I’d gladly give up my last six months if it means we can do this again.”_

_“What?  I thought we’d already talked about this.  Of_ course _we will.”  He squeezed her a little tighter and touched his lips to her crown._

_“No matter what happens?”_

_“No matter what happens.”_

_“Good,” she said.  “I can live with that.”_

_He brushed her cheek, gently.  “Fíriel…”_

_She said nothing._

_“Well, then, I guess that makes this practice.”_

_“Don’t jest,” she mumbled._

_“I mean, it won’t be a_ perfect _run, seeing as we both want to come out of this_ alive _, but we can scope out all the best routes now, leave marks for where to go next.  How long do your potions keep?  We could leave_ caches _!”_

_She butted her forehead into his chest.  He was still stroking her hair._

_“And then when it actually comes, we’ll leave these notes behind, ‘Fíriel and Alistair were here,’ and all the Wardens and the Legion that come after will look at them and say, ‘How in the blazes did they get that far,’ and they’ll try to beat our distance record for generations to come, but they’ll never be able to do it…”_

_“The darkspawn will move them,” she said._

_“What?”_

_“The notes.  Either we carve them into the walls, or we take advantage and let the rumors run wild.”_

_“‘Day seven hundred eighty-three: Killed seventy ogres.  Still amazed we haven’t turned into ghouls yet.  Oh, and we carved the word ‘gullible’ on the ceiling right above you—no, really, right there!  Don’t you see it?’”_

_She couldn’t help bursting into laughter._

_Alistair laid his finger on her nose.  “See?  That wasn’t so hard, was it?”_

_“No,” said Fíriel, and she pulled his head down and kissed him.  Maybe she could delude herself too, if only for tonight._


	11. Chapter 11

She wakes with the dawn and makes her way to the stream to perform her ablutions for the feast-day.  The grime of the past two days mingles with the dew on her skin, and while the dog would gladly lick her clean, nothing but water will do for a day dedicated to the gods.  She informs him that he, too, must be cleansed, and he is not pleased.

Normally when she washes in a stream she focuses on her arms, her legs, her face, for efficiency’s sake more than modesty’s.  Lakes have been a rare commodity during her travels.  But today, she strips to nothing, sits in the frigid water, and rubs her skin over with a rough stone.  She works the dirt, kaddis, and flecks of dried blood from the dog’s fur with her hands, and when they are both dry, dons her clothing once more.  With her clan, she would have worn new clothes or at least clean ones—but she brought only the one set and she cannot wait the hours necessary for it to dry.

The dog is not as clean as she wishes, as he rolls in the grass the moment she has guided him from the water, but it is unfair to ask him to pay his respects as fully as she does.  She whispers a message into an ear and he sets of.  Then she stokes the fire, splits the deer and lays it over the frame, and begins her morning prayers.

* * *

_Fíriel bit back a curse as she ran back to the castle from Lake Calenhad.  Judging by the sun’s position it was now over an hour past the meal the seneschal had promised them, and—Creators, how could she soften such a grave insult to the bann?_

_She wished she could blame herself more, but she was exhausted, and she_ had _been filthy, and there was so much work yet to do.  Connor needed to stay deep enough in the Beyond that the demon couldn’t control his body, which meant she needed to brew potions, and then still somehow get enough sleep that they could set out for the mages’ tower at first light._

_She opened the door to the dining hall, and was entirely unsurprised to find it was already cleared.  Pinching the bridge of her nose, she set off to find the seneschal—and hopefully not get lost in the process._

_“You’re the first one,” he said when she opened what she’d thought was the door to the food-storage-room._

_“Pardon?”_

_“Of our rescuers._ Nobody _came for luncheon.  I hardly know why I bothered…”_

 _“_ Ir abelas _,” she replied, bowing low.  Had_ no one _been able to treat Redcliffe’s hospitality as it deserved?  “They must have all been asleep.  Perhaps… do you dine later in the day?”_

_“At sundown, my lady,” the seneschal said, his brow furrowing._

_“If you can send someone to awaken us, I promise we won’t give you further insult.”_

_“What?  There’s no insult; I only wish I’d stopped to think…”  He sighed.  “Is there anything else you require, my lady?  I see you took advantage of the bath, at least.”_

_Fíriel blinked.  “I… would appreciate some food, now that I’m awake to enjoy it.”_

_He gave her directions to the kitchen, and she tried her best not to read into it._

_“Oh, and I don’t know where you’ve housed Warden Alistair.  I imagine he’s as hungry as I am.”_

_The seneschal’s eyes widened slightly—what had she said_ this _time?—but gave her the directions all the same.  And so it was that, after an hour of twisting and turning through the corridors, she arrived in front of his door with a crock full of stew, a blanket, and two trenchers._

 _Fíriel paused.  In camp, it was customary to knock outside of an_ aravel _, but she was already inside a building…_

_Figuring that knocking was better than not, she raised her hand and knocked three times._

_No answer._

_She put her ear to the door, and was surprised to hear a cry within.  Was he still asleep?_

_She cracked the door.  “Alistair,” she said, “I come bearing food.  I guarantee it’s better than the darkspawn.”  Stepping inside, she set the food down on the blanket and looked for him._

_He was… “not decent” was the terminology he would have used.  Not that she could see much of him—just his head, shoulders, and arms, sprawling out of a… wooden cauldron?  His head was lolled back, but he was grimacing, and she could see the muscles in his arms twitch._

_Out of respect for her fellow Warden’s strange sense of self-consciousness, she remained where she was and shut the door behind her.  “Alistair!  Alistair, wake up!”_

_“Bwuh?”  With a sudden cry, Alistair jolted awake, and—splashed?  There was_ water _in that thing?  “Fíriel?”  His hands flew down into the cauldron with another splash.  “Sweet Andraste, what are you doing here?”_

_“I brought you food,” she said.  “And then I heard you crying out, so I came in.  I promise I haven’t seen anything.”_

_“Well…”  He looked down, his face turning a curious shade of red.  “I’d like to get out.”_

_Fíriel sighed.  “I’ll avert my eyes.”_

_He gave her a meaningful look, but wouldn’t start moving till she turned around.  “I hope you don’t mind my asking if this is a ‘human’ thing or an ‘Alistair’ thing.”_

_There was more splashing behind her.  “Both?” he said.  “I don’t know, it’s not exactly something you think about every day.”_

_It was another minute before he let her turn back around.  He was large even without his armor—but he cleaned up surprisingly well for a human.  Fíriel spread the blanket on the floor, and opened the crock._

_“Oh,” he said, smelling the steam wafting through the room, “you are a_ miracle _!”_

_“You should be thanking our hosts,” said Fíriel._

_“Well, yes, but—Maker, I’m starving!” and he began to tuck into the food with such gusto that Fíriel had to begin eating just so he wouldn’t claim it all._

_Not that she really needed the encouragement.  Neither of them so much as spoke until a quarter of the food remained._

_“So,” Alistair said, raising an eyebrow at her as he licked at his fingers, “a lady comes alone to a man’s bedchambers…  People_ will _talk, you know.”_

_Fíriel stared at him blankly._

_“We’re alone.  Together.  In my bedroom.  Well, the guest room that’s been assigned to me, really, but that’s basically the same thing.”_

_“Is that a problem?”_

_“No, it’s just—never mind.  They can’t all be good jokes.”_

_“That was—_ oh _!  Is that like slipping out of bounds at the_ Arlathvhen _?”_

_It was Alistair’s turn to look confused._

_“It’s every ten years; all the clans gather together.  It’s… a great chance to meet new people… and, sometimes, keep the bloodlines healthy.  It’s how my parents met.”_

_“Oh?  You’ve never spoken of them before.”_

_“They’re both dead.  I never knew them.”_

_“Ah.”  Alistair was silent for a minute.  “I guess we have something in common, then.  You know, in addition to the whole ‘drinking darkspawn blood and being the possibly last hope of Ferelden’ thing, of course.”_

_Fíriel nodded and tore off another piece of bread to soak in the stew.  “Ashalle raised me, but the entire clan pitches in.”_

_“It sounds nice.”_

_She shrugged._

_“Homesick?”_

_“I’m fine,” said Fíriel.  “How are the darkspawn?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“You were dreaming, when I came in.  Did they send me their regards?”_

_Alistair chuckled.  “I’m sure they would’ve, if they’d paid me a visit.  No, this was about… well, last night and this morning.”_

_“_ Already? _”_

_“I… may have recognized some of the undead.  Makes for variety in your night terrors, at least.”_

_“Oh._ Ir abelas _, Alistair, I wasn’t thinking—I should have left you behind.”_

_“No, don’t—that’s, ‘I’m sorry,’ right?  Don’t be sorry.  It would have been pretty stupid if I was too afraid to help.”_

_She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off._

_“I’ll manage, Fíriel.  It’s just a nightmare.”_

_“All right,” she said, pushing the concern from her mind.  “You’d better.”_

_“Yes, ser.”_

_They finished their meal, and Fíriel rolled up the blanket they had eaten on and tucked it away in a corner.  “So, what_ were _you doing in that… thing?  Aside from taking a nap—unless that’s what you’re supposed to do in them?”_

_“What?”_

_“The wooden cauldron.”  When he squinted in confusion, she pointed at the object._

_“Oh!  You’ve never seen a bathtub before?”_

_“A what?”_

_“You know, a bathtub.  It’s a tub… for bathing.”_

_Fíriel stood up and inspected the basin.  The water was_ filthy _.  “Lakes are for bathing,” she said.  “You’re telling me you bathed in_ this _?”_

_“Well, you typically aren’t covered in dust and gore when you take one.”_

_“You were this time.”_

_He followed her, wrinkling his nose when he saw the water.  “Evidently—ugh, I might need another.”   He smiled and shook his head.  “I used to_ hate _it when I got roped into hauling water for these.”_

_“I hated water duty, too,” she said, sharing his smile.  “Only for cooking though.  This?  This is a waste.  You have a perfectly serviceable lake outside.”_

_“Lake Calenhad?  Have you_ been _in Lake Calenhad?  It’s freezing!”_

_“And?  Your water comes from the lake, does it not?”_

_“A_ well _, technically, which is a hole you dig so you don’t have to go to the lake for water, but you heat it before it goes in the bathtub.”_

_Fíriel laughed.  “Stop that!  You can’t fool me just because I don’t understand your customs!”_

_“What?  I’m not teasing you, Fíriel.”_

_“You haul water from a lake, heat it, and then_ wallow _in it to get clean?”_

 _“From a_ well _, thank you.”_

_“And then you heat it and wallow in it.”_

_“‘Soak,’ I believe, is the preferred term.  And it’s not a common occurrence—Maker knows the Chantry wouldn’t know a hot bath if it poured itself.  But if you’re well off, or you happen to be the guest of the arl in the castle—yes, that’s how it works.  It can be… quite relaxing, actually, if my dozing off wasn’t proof enough.  You might enjoy it.”_

_Fíriel frowned.  “Didn’t Leliana say she could_ kill _for a ‘hot bath’ a couple of days ago?”_

_“She did.  And I suppose she got her wish.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous.  You can’t kill something that’s already died a second time.”_

_“That’s splitting hairs,” he said with a laugh, “and you know it.  But, there you go.  That’s a ‘hot bath.’”_

_Fíriel shook her head, suppressing a yawn.  “Humans are_ weird _.”_


	12. Chapter 12

One day.

Tomorrow.

She would return tomorrow.

And then came the Landsmeet; and they would live, or they would die; and he would be saved, or he would be damned.

Alistair drew in one slow, shaky breath.  It was so funny, to have put in months and months of hard work and effort, only to ball it all up in one day, toss it into the air, and see where it landed.  _Just like the Archdemon_ , he thought, before he could shut the idea up—one life-changing crisis was enough for him at the moment, thank you very much.

Eamon was going to expect him to give a speech, wasn’t he?  Maker, he did _not_ want to have to give a speech…

Fíriel would be back tomorrow, he reminded himself.  And everything would be _fine_.

It was not yet tomorrow.

Alistair needed a drink.

He made his way to the wine cellar and stared morosely at the barrels, suddenly realizing he had no idea how to open them properly.

Of course, he didn’t hear Zevran at all, and jumped nearly a foot into the air when the assassin laid a hand on his arm.

Zevran grinned.

Alistair _glared_.

“I find the Emerald Graves back there to be the best… so far, at least,” he said, nodding at one barrel and then filling a wineskin from another.

“Hey!  You’re supposed to empty the first one before you open a second!”

“So I can drink red with my fish?”  Zevran tutted to himself.  “You have much to learn in the ways of the world, Alistair.  If it troubles you so greatly, I suggest you finish off the barrel yourself.”

“I might need it, at this rate,” Alistair muttered.

“Alas, our poor, lovelorn Warden.  Are you _certain_ the lady did not, in fact, intend to secret you away for a lovers’ tryst?”

“Yes, Zevran, I’m fairly sure that ‘I need some time to myself’ does _not_ , in fact, translate to, ‘actually, come with me and… _distract_ me.”

“Ah, but the heart of woman is such a fickle thing, and she does not always say what she truly desires…”

Alistair laughed.  “Excuse me, but have you _met_ Fíriel?  About so tall,” he said, holding his hand at shoulder height, “has tattoos on her forehead…”

“And the most marvelous backside…”

“Maker, Zevran, could we please not start… _this_ … again?”  Yesterday afternoon the elf had decided to take full advantage of Fíriel’s absence and… _educate_ Alistair, willing or no, on the finer points of feminine pleasure, which had happily reminded his body of exactly _how_ long it had been since he and Fíriel had last been together (a fortnight and three days, _not that anyone was counting_ , and no, he didn’t care how soundproof the walls were; having sex in the home of the man who raised you was just _wrong_ ), and heavens, he had already figured most of them out; he wasn’t stupid…

Fortunately, before Zevran could continue his torment, there came a ruckus from behind—a riotous, happy barking, and the sound of toenails scrabbling on tile.  Huan had returned.

Alistair whirled around—could she have come back early?—and rushed to meet the dog, who began dancing around him.  “Where is she?” he said, feeling silly for asking even as he said it.

Huan immediately tore back out into the courtyard, and, when he was at the gate, fixed Alistair with a “You _are_ coming, aren’t you?” look.

“Hang on a minute!” he said.  “She isn’t here?  Is she hurt?  Did you come to get help?”  He didn’t _think_ the mabari looked distressed, but feed him enough and he would wag his stub of a tail through unspeakable desolation.

Zevran strolled into the courtyard behind him at a much more leisurely pace.

Huan growled at him.

“I do believe, my dear Alistair, that this is Fíriel asking you to go to her and… what was it you said?  _Distract_ her.”

Alistair ignored him and crouched before the dog.  “Will you take me to her?” he said.

Huan barked once.

“Right, I’ll take that as a yes.  Let me just… go back for my arms and armor.  Just in case.”

He half-fumbled the armor on, to the point that it was probably taking him longer than if he’d just taken a few deep breaths first, and made his way back to the courtyard.  Zevran pressed the wineskin and a small cloth parcel into his hands.  “I was going to use these for tonight, but I believe you have greater need of them than I,” he said.

“Er… thanks?”  _Maker, please don’t let it be poisoned.  Or spiked.  It’s probably spiked, isn’t it?_

“And I expect a detailed report of your exploits upon your return.”

“Shut up, Zevran.”

Huan led Alistair outside the city, through the surrounding farmland, and into a small forest.  _Huh_ , he thought, as he passed under the trees’ boughs.  This _had_ to be the King’s Wood; there weren’t any other forests so close to the city.  Small wonder Fíriel would set up shop here.

He felt her before he saw her.

She was in a small clearing in the middle of the woods, tending to a low fire, and her back was to him.  She was in her old Dalish armor, the kind he’d teased her about so long ago, and he imagined he could make out each bit of her backbone as it rose from her smooth skin.  Her head was tilted back, as if she were smelling something on the wind, and he knew, he just _knew_ , she could feel him too.

At long last she turned her head and looked at him, and the love in her eyes threatened to turn him into a puddle then and there.

“Alistair,” she said.


	13. Chapter 13

She feels him before she sees him—a pinprick on the edge of her mind that grows as he nears.  She can feel him moving closer, closer, until he stops—and she knows he sees her.  Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back and savors him for one slow moment before turning to look at him.

He is golden in the sunlight, and the smile that spreads across her face makes her heart skip.  “Alistair.”

She rises smoothly while he walks over to her, and she is about to lose herself in his embrace when she remembers.  “I’m sorry, I can’t touch you until you’ve been purified.”  She pauses.  “It’s a sacred day,” she adds, as if that’s an explanation he’ll understand.

Alistair stops, opens his mouth, and slowly lowers his arms.  “ _A-and_ the truth comes out.  All those rumors about human sacrifice _aren’t_ just old wives’ tales, and the only other person who _might_ know where I am is Morrigan.”

There was a soft woof.

“And the dog.  I am _so_ doomed.”

She smiles and leads the way to the stream.  “You’re awfully willing, for a sacrifice.”

“I _am_!” he says.  “Must be that pesky Warden’s Oath.  That, and you did a _really_ good job buttering me up, getting me to let my guard down.  The figurines were a nice touch.”

“Well, I _had_ to make sure you were worthy, first.  Young, hale, hardy…”

“ _Not_ a virgin anymore,” he says under his breath.

“Of course not!  The rites go better if I’ve claimed that from you.  That’s what makes you the best candidate—that, and being the human king’s bastard.  It’ll give us… what, at _least_ twenty years of Dirthamen’s secrecy?  Normally it lasts only a year or so and then another of us has to go out and seduce some poor naïve fool.”

“So… I get to save nineteen young men’s lives and virtue?  I’ll admit, it’s a better use for my blood than Eamon’s drummed up.  I’m game.”

She finds she suddenly can’t respond, and is grateful for the stream’s proximity.  She tells him to wash his whole body, and that she’ll be back by the fire when he’s done.

She’s poking at it with a stick and smelling the venison roasting above when he sits down next to her.

“Am I sufficiently purified?”

She reaches over, takes his hand, and kisses it.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” he says, squeezing it, then running his fingers up her wrist till she squeaks.  “So… what _is_ today, exactly?”

“The same as any other day,” she replies.  “The real holiday was last full moon—I think; I never finished comparing our calendars.  But I wanted to celebrate it anyway.  Even though it’s the wrong day, and I’m not the Keeper, and we don’t have any halla or the ceremonial wines or oils, and I think half the herbs I need don’t grow this far north…”  She sighs.  “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How did you celebrate it with your clan?”

“We call it the _Or’eshar_ … I suppose the best translation would be ‘The Ladies’ Day.’  Elgar’nan, Dirthamen, Falon’Din—they govern the darker places of the heart: vengeance, secrets, death.  The women preside over life and its preservation.  Mythal’s justice guards us, Andruil teaches us to feed and defend ourselves, Sylaise keeps us warm and well, and Ghilan’nain leads us to safety when we must move.”

“That’s… not all the gods, though, is it?  I could have sworn you told me about a crafter…”

“You’re thinking of June.  And there is one other, beyond him, but we do not speak his name lightly, and I will not invoke him on a day dedicated to joy and life.  I’m celebrating it as well as I can.”  She gestures to the deer roasting on the fire.  “That’s Andruil’s blessing, which will serve as our dinner.  She favored me, leading me here.  If you don’t mind tending the fire, I can hunt to thank her later today—or we can trust the odds and do it together.”

Alistair says nothing, so she continues.

“The _da’len_ usually braid crowns of flowers to honor Sylaise, and the fires we burn at night do as well.  We try to make the smoke as sweet-smelling as possible.  Ghilan’nain we can’t really honor here, though.  There aren’t any halla to ask her to bless, and that rite involves more of the Keeper’s magic.”

“What about Mythal?”

“Also requires magic—though not as much.  The anointing, with the oil that we don’t have—that’s more of a blessing for the campsite.  Then there’s anointing the clan, leaping over bonfires…  Not that they’ll do us Wardens any good.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“She’s the All-Mother, Alistair.  They’re fertility rites.”

“Ah.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t do us any _harm_ , though.”

“Not unless—wait, _us_?”

“Of course.  The holiday is for the whole clan, after all.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Alistair says.  “Oh, I _see_.”

“Unless you don’t want to, of course,” she adds.  “I mean, they aren’t really the true rites, since I’m not a Keeper and we don’t have half the things we need to do them properly.  But if your god hasn’t smitten me for the Temple, or for… _us_ , I don’t think mine are going to smite you for this.”

He still hesitates, though, so she takes both his hands and looks earnestly into his eyes, because she knows he’ll never get to experience this properly, no matter what the future brings, because her people will never let him.  “Please,” she says softly.  “Let me share this with you.”

* * *

_“I should have asked you to accompany us,” Fíriel said when Leliana returned the pouch of ashes to her.  “Forgive me.”_

_“It doesn’t matter,” Leliana replied.  “I can return when this is over, when there will be time to linger.  Now we know where it is!  And once the dragon is slain, the Temple will be safe for pilgrims and all those who wish to meditate on the Maker’s mercy.”_

_“Once the dragon is slain…”  Fíriel scratched the back of her neck and sighed.  “Yes, I suppose we_ will _have to do that, won’t we?”  It wasn’t exactly germane to ending the Blight, and they’d already slaughtered anyone who’d benefit directly from the dragon’s death.  “Hoy, Alistair!” she called.  “Fancy a bit of dragon slaying once we’re healed up?”_

_Alistair trotted over from where he had been sitting by the fire.  “I’m not sure; it’ll depend on my schedule.”  He pulled out a handkerchief and held it up, ticking off imaginary points.  “Let’s see: darkspawn, darkspawn, darkspawn, and… more darkspawn.  I_ suppose _I could manage something tomorrow night, but it’ll be a tight squeeze.”_

_Fíriel jabbed her thumb in Leliana’s direction.  “Leliana thinks we should kill the fake Andraste.”_

_“Oh.  That sounds… highly dangerous.”_

_“If we don’t take the right precautions,” she said, mind working out the details as she spoke.  “Could be fun.”  She flashed him a smile.  “Isn’t that what little human boys dream of, growing up?”_

_“Oh, yes,” said Leliana.  “Slaying dragons, scaling towers, rescuing fair maidens…”_

_“Yes,” Alistair interrupted.  “And then they grow up.  I’m a Grey Warden during a Blight; the dragon is practically guaranteed if you squint.  And as for the maidens… I find my tastes lie in the self-rescuing type.”  He grabbed Fíriel’s waist and pulled her to his side, making her laugh.  “Even crazy ones that drink dragon’s blood for no apparent reason.”_

_“It was going to go to waste!  What else was I going to do?”_

_“_ Not drink it! _”_

_Leliana laughed, but Fíriel ignored her.  “Think of this dragon as practice, then.”_

_“For the archdemon?  I thought_ Flemeth _was the practice round.”_

_“Yes, but we didn’t know she was practice at the time, so we weren’t actually prepared.”_

_Alistair opened his mouth.  “…Point.  Do little Dalish girls dream of slaying dragons too, then?”_

_“No,” Fíriel said with a chuckle.  “That’s just you rubbing off on me.  We dream of tricking the Dread Wolf into releasing our gods so they can restore Elvhenan.”_

_“Really?” said Leliana._

_“Of course we do.  We didn’t become wanderers by choice.”_

_Leliana clapped a hand to her mouth.  “I’m sorry, Fíriel, I shouldn’t have presumed.  I’d merely thought, since I’d seen you accept the Maker’s blessing, and you treated the temple with such respect…”_

_“What, that I’d somehow begun worshiping him?  Leliana, you_ do _realize there are degrees between ‘follows the Chant’ and_ Morrigan _.”_

_“I know,” said Leliana.  “But you said you could feel it was a holy site.  I understand wanting to keep your old gods as well, but in the face of such beauty, how could you not revere Him and His Bride?”_

_“I’ll concede that he may actually exist now,” Fíriel admitted.  “I’ll respect his power if the Ashes actually work.  But until your Maker actually_ does _something to deserve my reverence, I think I’ll hold off.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Fíriel knew she should leave it there, but it had been a long day, Alistair was still upset about the dragon’s blood, and Leliana wanted her to kill a dragon for her god, because somehow all the strange, confused awe she’d felt in the Gauntlet wasn’t good enough for her.  “Shartan was there, by the way—or his shade was.  I think the Temple didn’t get the ‘pretend elves don’t exist’ order when the Chantry sacked my homeland.”  She squeezed Alistair’s hand, spun on her heel, and left._

_They started talking before she was out of earshot.  Fíriel checked a sigh—Alistair, at least, should know better at this point, unless he_ wanted _her to overhear…_

_“Of course,” Leliana was saying, “she is very devout, and her people are still mistreated.  The Chantry needs to be better.”_

_“I’d give you tips on making it up to Fíriel, at least, but… I’m pretty sure my methods only work for me.  And I_ definitely _don’t want to share them if they don’t.”_

_“It’s all right.”  A pause.  “Do you think we’re still going to fight the dragon?  If I have condemned anyone through my ignorance…”_

_She heard Alistair’s laughter.  “Didn’t you see the way her eyes lit up?  Trust me, she wants to fight that thing as much as you do.  And if she doesn’t, I promise I’ll talk to her.”_

_“You shouldn’t have to do that, Alistair.  It’s my responsibility, and you didn’t want to fight the dragon in the first place.”_

_“Wait, who said I don’t want to fight the dragon?”_

_“You said it was dangerous!”_

_“Leliana, can you remember the last thing we did that wasn’t?”_

_“No.  No, I don’t think I can.”_

_“Me neither,” said Alistair, and Fíriel could hear the grin in his voice._

_“What was that about little human boys growing up?”_

_“Hush, you.  I have a reputation, you know.”_

_Fíriel covered her mouth to stifle an undignified giggle.  Whether he wanted her to overhear or not, it wouldn’t do to let everyone know._


	14. Chapter 14

He actually accompanies her on the hunt, even though he scares off half the game, and she thinks it’s because he doesn’t want to let her out of his sight.  The dog makes them a pit to bury the hares, and when she cuts her finger to nourish the earth, she tells him of the _Vir Adahlen_ once more.

Halfway through, though, she falls silent.  Her body cannot nourish the earth, not without passing first through the flame.  She was uprooted the moment she drank the Joining chalice.

In the end, she lets one drop fall, and hopes that Andruil will forgive her.

He kisses her cut hand.

When the venison has finished cooking, they pull the meat straight from the bone, first with knives, then with hands as it cools, tossing scraps to the dog and licking what fat there is from their fingertips.  Alistair brings out the wineskin, and it’s not the ceremonial wine, but when he reveals where it came from her heart sings and smarts at the same time.

She rebuilds the fire and throws on the aromatic herbs, and the smoke that rises to Sylaise feels as heady as the wine.

When the sun is setting, she asks him if he wishes to dance.

It is a terrible idea, but he agrees to it.  They have no music, and singing while dancing leaves her breathless and hiccupping, and the People dance in groups, not pairs, so they have to keep flitting round one another like mayflies.

They are pathetic, but they are young, and strong, and very much in love, and she’s convinced herself that they can make this night last forever if they try hard enough.  They can do _anything_ together, if they try hard enough, and over the past year she’s learned that no one can try harder than they can.  And then it’s something he says, she doesn’t even know what it is, but it makes her double over with laughter, and his hands are wrapped around her slim waist as she bends down.

When her feet steady, he’s pulled her close to him, and her heart is racing as she feels his heat seeping into her body.  She pulls her hair to the side and he kisses that spot on her neck that makes her toes curl, then turns her round, working his way up to the tip of her ear.  At last she’s facing him, arms wound round his neck, and she lets herself get lost in his eyes for one good, long moment before bringing her lips to his, and the rest of the world falls away.

* * *

_Fíriel blinked and looked at her tent, grey in the light of dawn.  She didn’t remember walking to it.  She almost yawned, but how could she sleep, after waking to find Tamlen, twisted and broken?_

_She knew that it was only the taint within her, but Creators help her, part of her had wanted to join him and pretend that they were still with their clan and there was no poison in their veins.  She had stabbed it—stabbed_ him _,_ slain _him—and now she was drifting, drifting, like a halla far from the pen._

_“Fíriel?”_

_She turned around slowly.  It was Alistair, with the same worried cant to his eyes as when she was gravely injured._

_“You should… you should get some rest.  We’re staying here for the day.”_

_She shook her head.  “We need to clean up—the battle.  Can’t let the taint…”_

_Alistair took her hand in his, running his thumb once over the knuckles.  “I already did that, after you booted me off grave-digging._ Rest _.”_

_Fíriel looked at the tent.  “I don’t want to.”_

_“I know, but you’ll probably feel better after you do.  Do it as a favor to me, at least, if you can’t do it for yourself.”_

_She took a step towards the tent, but her hand was still linked with Alistair’s.  Tamlen was dead.  She was exiled.  The Grey Wardens were her life now, and this man was the only thing that made it bearable.  She should cut him out now, save herself the grief from when the Blight inevitably took him, too.  If losing her childhood friend rent her heart like this, how would it survive losing the man she loved?_

_Fíriel looked back at Alistair, and cursed her weakness.  “Stay with me?”_

_Alistair’s mouth worked in silence for a few moments before he spoke.  “I—er, are you sure?  After all, I don’t want to make things worse, but that’s probably exactly what I—damn, I’m babbling again, aren’t I?  I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t be.  I just—”_ Fenedhis.  _“—would prefer not to be alone right now.”_

_“Well, then.”  He squeezed her hand.  “I suppose it falls on me to keep you company—since you asked, and everything.”_

_“_ Please? _”_

_Alistair ducked into the tent behind her, and sat down near the entrance.  But the tent was so much smaller with two people inside, and she found herself leaning against him, welcoming the arm he curled protectively around her waist._

_“Not exactly the way I anticipated getting invited into a lovely lady’s tent, I’ll admit,” he said._

_Fíriel let out a hollow laugh._

_“Shh,” he murmured, reaching over with his other hand to stroke her hair._

_She wanted to cry again, so very badly, but everything felt numb, everything but his hand running through her hair.  She loosened the thong that normally bound it in place, and forced herself to breathe normally._

_Fíriel did not know how long they sat there, but as she relaxed they drifted to the ground, inch by inch, his warmth at her back anchoring her._

_“Feeling any better now?” he asked._

_“No.”_

_“So… er, not to pry or anything, but how close were the two of you?”_

_She smiled ruefully at the memory.  “Like twins, growing up.”_

_“And… after that?  I swear, I’m not jealous; I just—”_

_“_ No _,” she said, “nothing like that.  No lanterns, remember?”_

 _“_ Lampposts _.”_

_“Fine, ‘lampposts.’  No, Alistair, he was just a friend—but a very close one.”  She heaved a sigh weighty with loss._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“You were there in the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” said Fíriel.  “You know what happened.”_

_“The Guardian said you couldn’t have stopped him.”_

_“Yes, and the vision of Tamlen said this would be the last time I saw him.  Look how_ that _turned out.”_

_“Fíriel…”_

_“Duncan said that we could do nothing for him, and I believed him!  If we’d found him, maybe… maybe we could have saved him…”_

_His hand tightened in her hair._

_“Is this what we’ll become, when the Calling takes us?”_

_“I…_ maybe _?  I mean, the plan was getting myself nice and dead before I actually found out the hard way.”_

_“Right.”  Fíriel groaned.  “What am I doing here, Alistair?”_

_“Funny, I ask myself that every morning, and I_ still _don’t have an answer.”_

 _She elbowed him lightly.  “Stop that; I’m being_ serious _.”_

_“So am I—for once.  We don’t have the luxury of dwelling on ‘why,’ not while the Blight’s in full swing around us.  We just have to… keep going.”_

_“Then why are we in my tent and not out there?”_

_He poked her side.  “You won’t make it through another battle in your current state, and don’t you dare try telling me otherwise.  As for me… well, you’re the one that invited me in, so I’m not the right person to ask.”_

_She rubbed at her eyes.  “This never should have happened.”_

_“Well,” Alistair said, laughing nervously, “that’s what I tried telling you, but you insisted I join you…”_

_“No, I didn’t mean_ you _, Alistair—I meant the mirror, the Wardens, all of this.”_

 _“You_ do _realize I’m still included in ‘all of this,’ don’t you?”_

 _She didn’t say anything for a long moment, biting her lips together till they hurt.  “Fine—_ not _all of this, then.  Certainly not you.  You bring me… such joy, Alistair, more joy than I thought I could have, even when I was with my clan.  But then I remember Tamlen, and… how can I let myself feel this way, when it never would have happened if he hadn’t touched that mirror?  I don’t deserve it—I_ can’t _deserve it.”_

_“I know,” said Alistair.  “Neither can I.”_

_“If there were a way I could have you, and keep everything else…”_

_“Maker, I_ wish _.”  He chuckled.  “But you know quite well that in a perfect world, we never would have met.  But Andraste as my witness, if I were given the choice, I’d choose the world where I found you, selfish bastard that I am.”_

_She laughed softly.  “We are quite the pair, aren’t we?”_

_“You know, I have wondered, what would have happened with us if Duncan and all the rest had survived.  He’d probably give me this long lecture about duty, which I_ would _listen to, and then all the other Wardens would try to get me into your bedroll anyway, if they weren’t trying to get there themselves, and I’d get so nervous that I’d never say more than two words to you a day.”_

_“You think they’d have been interested in me?”_

_He grinned broadly.  “A woman as talented, clever, and gorgeous as you?  They’d be mad not to.  I’d say you’d have to fend them off with a greatsword,” he added, his half-whispers tickling her ear, “but let’s be honest—that would only encourage them.”_

_“Don’t worry, dear, I’d have fallen for you even with a hundred Wardens competing for my attention.”_

_“Is that so?” said Alistair.  “Lucky me, then.”  He leaned forward and nibbled at her ear._

_She moaned before she could stop herself._

_“Oh—Maker, I’m an idiot, I’m so sorry for—”_

_Fíriel twisted in his arms and pulled his head down for a long, hungry kiss.  When they parted, she tilted her head back just far enough to gaze into his eyes, her body humming with energy._

_“Fíriel,” he panted, “we shouldn’t.  You’re grieving.  And we’re lying down—in your_ tent _.”_

 _She blinked—and_ now _, of course, she could cry again._

_He brushed her tears back with his thumb, and she shivered even as more slipped out.  “Shh… cry as much as you need.  I’ll be here.”_


	15. Chapter 15

“You know,” Alistair says, gazing up at the stars, “I think I feel safer here than I did in the estate, surrounded by guards.”

She laughs at that, for neither of them has a stitch of clothing on, of course, and shifts closer to him.  He wraps an arm around her shoulder.  “I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too.”  He sighs, warm and contented.  “Thank you.  I needed this.”

She doesn’t speak, only cranes her head to kiss his shoulder.

“And how about you?  Are you feeling any better?  You know that if you need to talk about it—anything at all, really—I’ll listen.”

She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp, as tears spring to her eyes with the return of all her burdens and the realization that this might be their last night together.

Immediately his arms are around her, and he’s crushing her to his chest as she lets out one little half-sob after another.  Never has she felt so weak around him, not even when the despair of the Deep Roads enveloped them, and she knows that the moment she says anything it’ll only get worse.

“When’s the Landsmeet?” she finally manages.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he says.  “Arl Eamon was going to call it earlier, but then Morrigan came back with your message.  I… might have asked the Queen to stall him, just in case.”

“ _Why_?”  She doesn’t know if she’s asking about Eamon, or him.

“Because… all right, this is going to sound stupid, but I keep having this dream, about tomorrow, where for some incredibly ludicrous reason it’s left up to me, and… for some reason, I can’t _say_ anything, or worse, I just start babbling, but everyone takes it for ‘yes, fine king material right here,’ and then they’re putting a crown on my head, and—”  He cuts himself off, shakes his head.  “I told you it was stupid.”

“No, it isn’t,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows so she can see his entire face.  “You’re allowed to be worried.”

He pulls her flush to him once more.  “It’s just… no matter what happens tomorrow, it’ll be the end of _something_.  I’ll count myself lucky if I don’t end up running from the palace screaming gibberish.”

“Well, that’s _one_ way to make sure you’ll never become king.”

“In a pinch, sure, but how would I fight a Blight from the madhouse?”

“Easily—I’d get them to let me take you so I can point you at the darkspawn.”

“See?” he says, and she can hear his smile.  “I _knew_ you’d look out for me!  Anyway, that’s why I’m not worried about accidentally becoming king now.  _You’re_ here.”

She falls silent.

“And before you tell me you _can’t_ show all those stuffy nobles that Anora’s the better option, let me remind you that you managed to talk Oghren into staying sober for one night.”

She chuckles at that, but trails off.  She can’t speak.

“And _then_ there was the time with the bears you got to fight for us…”

“Alistair,” she finally says, voice shaking, “the alienage…”

“What about it?”

She takes a deep breath.  “You can’t tell me they weren’t suffering before Loghain took power.  If… if you were… you could change things…  You could do so much good…”

“I’d mess it up,” he says immediately.  “I’d get them all killed, and then me, and—”

“How do you know, if you don’t try?”

“Fíriel, are you serious?  Maker’s blood, tell me you aren’t serious…”  He squeezes her closer.

“I—”

“Love, are you honestly saying what I think you’re saying?”

She bites her lip.  “I don’t know… but I don’t think Anora cares enough to fix it.”

“But… what you’d be asking me to do—”

“I know!”  Tears spill from her eyes and onto his chest.

“There wouldn’t— _we_ wouldn’t—”

“ _I know!_ ”  And he’s right, because humans don’t have any concept of merit over blood, and she’ll never be able to bear his children even if the Landsmeet would accept them.

“Is… is that what you want?”  He tilts her chin up so he can look directly into her eyes, and the fear within, the water glimmering at the edges, wrenches at her heart.

She breaks contact after ten seconds, staring at a point on his chest.  “I don’t want to lose you,” she says quietly.  “I don’t want you to become something you hate.  But my people are suffering.”

“Is there… is there another way we could help them?”

“I don’t know.”

He sighs, and she thinks she can hear his heart breaking.  “I trust you, Fíriel.  You haven’t steered us wrong so far.  If you think I should be king—well, then, I’ll be king.”  He hugs her once more before releasing her and sitting up.  The fire is dwindling.  “Maker, it’s getting cold!  Why aren’t we wearing anything?”

She pushes herself half off the ground and looks at him.  “Don’t ask me.  You started it.”

“That’s… debatable.”  His smile is a brilliant flash of white in the firelight, before it softens to something almost sad.

“I don’t know what to do, Alistair.”

He’s putting another log on the fire, shifting its embers with a stick.  The dog stirs from slumber next to him.  “What makes you think I’ll be any help?”

She almost laughs, the question is so absurd.  “How could you _not_ be any help?  Didn’t you ever wonder why you liked most of my decisions?”

“Because they were the right thing to do?”  He makes it sound so obvious, so unassuming.

She rolls up to her feet and closes the distance between them, laying her hand on his shoulder.  “And who taught me that, Alistair?”

His lips part in shock, and she wants to kiss them more than anything.

“That’s why I love you so much,” she says.  “You make me a better person.”

He starts shaking his head, but she cups her other hand to his cheek, and gives in to the temptation.

A log pops, and they both jump back from the fire.  “Naked camping,” he says, gesturing to it.  “Not our smartest decision.”

“You can dress yourself any time you like, you know.”

He _does_ think about it for a while.  Then he reaches over and runs the back of his hand down her side, and the shiver that races through her is not from the cold.

“Hey!” he says, running his thumb over her cheek.  “No more crying, please?”

She’s not thinking of _that_ loss, though; she’s thinking of trying to put the Wardens back together without him, wondering how long it’ll take before she ruins things without him there, and _why_ is she even thinking about this when Loghain still rules Ferelden and the Blight is still raging and they might both die tomorrow?  “I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

“Believe me, I know.  And… I _did_ want to apologize, for dumping this all in your lap from the start, without thinking about what it would do to you.  Normal people would have cracked under it all months ago.”

She attempts a smile.  “Grey Wardens aren’t normal people.”

“I know.  You know I love you, right?  And I always will, even if—”

“Hush,” she says, laying a finger on his nose.

And he does.

She busies herself about the campsite, not that there’s much to do since neither one of them came here intending to camp.  She wonders if there are any other rites she can show him, but the only things that come to mind are for bonding and fertility, and she can’t let her mind dwell on either of those right now.  He’s finally putting his pants back on, and she watches the shift of his muscles, the grim, sad look in his eyes.  He really would do this for her, she realizes, because he loves her that much.

And in that moment, Fíriel realizes what a singular idiot she is being.  She goes to his side, and takes his hand in hers.  “What do _you_ want, Alistair?”

“What do _I_ want?” he repeats.  She realizes, with a twinge of shame, that she doesn’t remember the last time someone asked him.  Neither, she suspects, does he.

“You’re the one who’s most affected,” she says.  “And you know all the details, all the underlying factors that I do.  Seems to me you should have the most say in the matter.”

She knows what his answer’s going to be, because he’s told her countless times—I want to be a Grey Warden, I want to spend my life killing darkspawn and helping people, I want to spend it with you—but that isn’t what he says.  He says, “I want you to be happy.”

She makes a little noise, something between a whimper and a sob, that _this_ is the first thing he thinks of, and instantly her mind is made up.

He doesn’t let her get a word in, though.  “If being King and trying to make Ferelden better for the elves makes you happier, then that’s what I’ll do—and gladly.  If it doesn’t; if you’d be happier with me by your side—then, well, that’s wonderful.  But don’t get all worked up about pleasing me.  Worry about yourself, first.”

“Don’t worry, Alistair, I’m not going to make you king,” Fíriel says.  “We’ll find our own ways to help—we’ve managed it well enough so far.”

He whoops in joy, scoops her into his arms, and spins her around.  “Oh, thank the Maker.  Thank _you_.  Thank your gods, too, for me; why not?”  The corners of his lips twitch up in a smile.  “You know, dear, for a moment you _almost_ had me worried.”

“Oh, ha, ha,” she says, and he kisses her once more, and as she reaches for his waistband it dawns on her that this may not be their last night together after all.

* * *

_Fíriel cracked a half-crusted eye open.  It felt like summer in her tent.  Groggily, she reached for the laces of her gambeson._

_Her hand brushed something warm and solid, and suddenly everything came rushing back—why her head was stuffy, why it was so warm, why Alistair was in her tent—_

_Alistair was in her tent._

_She jolted awake._

_Instantly his hand was on her cheek, and she found herself staring into his eyes.  “Hush,” he said.  “It’s all right; I’m here.”_

_“_ Abelas _,” she murmured._

_“Pardon?”_

_“_ Abelas _,_ ir abelas _.”  She rubbed at her eyes.  “‘I’m sorry.’”_

_“Sorry?  Whatever for?”_

_“Imposing.  Falling asleep on you._ Something _.”_

_He tapped her nose.  “None of that is worth apologizing over, you ninny.  You_ aren’t _imposing, and you’re_ supposed _to be sleeping.  Why aren’t you sleeping?  Go back to sleep.”_

_Fíriel grimaced.  “I can’t.”_

_“Yes, you can.  You just_ were _.”_

_“But the nightmares…”  She had been too deep in the Beyond for the darkspawn to find her, but that didn’t stop the needles threading darkness through her heart or the cold brackish water seeping through her skin.  The last fragments of the dream were fading from her mind, but she could still feel the brush of ravens’ wings and hear Tamlen’s voice echoing through the formless mists.  Was his soul trapped there without the proper rites to send him into_ uthenera _?_

_Alistair sighed.  “Do you think you’re up to leaving your tent?”_

_“No.”_

_“Then I’ll be out for a bit getting us food.  Once you’re good and fed, we’ll see about you getting some more shuteye.”_

_“What about you?”_

_“Don’t you worry about me.  I can sleep anywhere, remember?”_

_“Even in my tent?”  She regretted the words the moment they came out._

_“_ Especially _in your tent, Fíriel,” he said in a low voice._

_Fíriel swallowed._

_He was gone, and for a brief moment she spied a shred of blue through the open tent flap.  She must have slept for hours, after crying herself to exhaustion on Alistair’s chest._

_Fíriel groaned and jammed the palm of her hand against her eye.  He’d stayed with her the whole time, hadn’t he?  She hadn’t intended it;_ surely _he needed to sleep himself (though maybe he had, if he wasn’t joking earlier?)…  But the more she dwelt on his absence, the more her heart quailed.  She hated,_ hated _feeling this needy, even as she recalled the feel of his hands on her wait, his lips on her neck, his breath in her ear, his body stretched prone next to hers…_

_And of course her memory flashed back to the Gauntlet._ Blast.

_She stretched and sat up.  Creators, it was_ hot _in here.  She knew that Alistair functioned as an emergency campfire at times—it was an early lesson of their courtship—but in a tent in the daytime sun it felt like Orzammar all over again.  She undid the laces on her gambeson, then, on further thought, removed it entirely, leaving her in a half-laced tunic that was honestly more trouble than it was worth._

_Outside, she heard raised voices—Alistair and… Zevran?  Abandoning her earlier impulse, she leaned forward to crack the tent flap—and Alistair burst in, carrying something that looked like bread._

_“Are you_ certain _she doesn’t—”_

_“Sod_ off _, Zevran!” Alistair yelled outside before the flap swung shut.  Then he turned back to her.  “Er, sorry about that.  Bloody sex-crazed elf can’t seem to take a… hint…”  He suddenly realized where he was looking, reddened, and screwed his eyes shut.  “_ Um.  _Yes, kettle, pleasure to make your acquaintance, too.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“Never mind, it’s—it’s not a good joke.”_

_“Are you all right?”_

_“Yes, yes, I’m—”  He licked his lips.  “Never better, it seems.”  He thrust one of the bread-piles at her face.  “Here, I come bearing sandwiches.”_

_Fíriel took it and had a bite—cold bits of roast were stuffed in the middle, as well as some of the roots thrown in the pot from the night before.  “This is convenient,” she said._

_“Isn’t it?” he said, smiling through his full mouth.  “Just think, if we wanted to, we could eat_ and _fight darkspawn at the same time!”_

_“You wouldn’t be able to use a shield.”_

_He waved his free hand.  “Details.”_

_They finished the sandwiches in silence, and after the meal was over, Fíriel kissed the palm of his hand.  “Thank you,” she said quietly._

_“What for?”_

_She didn’t even_ know _why her heart felt heavy this time.  “Everything?  Seriously, though, Alistair, you need to take care of yourself too.”_

_“_ I’m _fine,” he said.  “_ I _didn’t just lose my best friend in a horribly traumatic fashion.”_

_“He’s not my best friend, Alistair.  Even if he were still alive, even if he hadn’t been—I don’t know how much we’d have in common now.”_

_He opened his mouth to speak, but evidently thought better of whatever he was going to say.  “It doesn’t matter.  It was still horrid and you shouldn’t have had to go through it.”_

_“Just another way the Blight ruins everything,” said Fíriel._

_“Do… you want to talk about him at all?  Or your old clan, or anything, really.”_

_“Do you think it’ll help?”_

_“It helped for me,” he said._

_“That’s right—you were_ joking _about them earlier.”  She smiled at him.  “You truly feel better?”_

_“I don’t know that ‘better’ is the right word…  It still hurts, but I can bear it now, even without the Blight distracting me.  Tell you what—if you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll just tell you all the silly Warden stories I can think of, until you’re ready to fall asleep again.  How does that sound?”_

_“That sounds_ wonderful _.”_

_She didn’t know how long they sat there, falling deeper and deeper into the worlds woven by their voices.  By the third tale she couldn’t stop giggling, even though she_ knew _the story wasn’t that funny, and then it reminded her of the time she and Tamlen and Fenarel went berrying and somehow lost more berries to one another’s faces than actually eating them, and how quickly Ashalle’s face transformed from fear to fury once she realized that they were not, in fact, horribly injured…_

_By the time all the tales they could think of were told, Alistair had tears streaming down his face and Fíriel had a stitch in her side._

_“Better?” he said, brushing her hair behind her ear._

_She nodded, and brought her lips up to meet his, twining her arms around his neck and almost groaning at the feel of him pressed up against her._

_“Well!” he said with a nervous laugh.  “Mission accomplished.  I suppose I should take my leave now, assuming my services are no longer required.”_

_“Required?”_

_“_ Or _desired, if that’s easier for you to judge right now.”_

_“Oh, they’re_ definitely _desired, Alistair,” she said._

_“Ah…” he said, suddenly showing an intense interest in the blanket carpeting the tent.  “That’s… very good to know then.  And… I guess I’m staying.  I should warn you, though—keep me here long enough and I may never want to leave.”_

_“You say that as if it’s a_ bad _thing,” Fíriel said, wondering how the conversation had changed so quickly from camaraderie to…_ this _._

_“Obviously!  Do you_ really _want my dirty socks all over the floor?”_

_“I want—”  She froze.  Creators, she had to tell him about the Gauntlet._

_“Hey,” he said.  “It’s all right; you’ve had a trying day.  Lie down for me?”  He smoothed her bedroll as best as he could, and Fíriel complied.  He lay next to her for only a moment before sitting up.  “_ Maker _, it’s hot in here.”_

_Fíriel grinned.  “You only just noticed?”_

_“I’ve been_ comforting _you,” he remonstrated.  “That’s a lot of work.”  He gestured at his gambeson.  “Not that I’m trying to return the conversation to previous topics best avoided, but do you mind?”_

_“Not at all.”_

_“Good.”  He undid the laces enough to lift the gambeson over his head, then the tunic—_

_He realized what he was doing_ right _as the tunic was bunched up around his head and arms, and while she couldn’t see his face, his blush was rapidly staining his neck and below._

_“What was that about ‘previous topics best avoided’?”_

_“I can_ hear _you laughing, you know”_

_“If I’d known this was going to be_ that _kind of party I’d have taken mine off too.  I_ was _seriously considering it before you came back with food.”_

_Alistair let out a sort of strangled squawk.  “You’re_ evil _.  You’re an evil,_ evil _woman, and just for that, I’m putting it back on.”  He tried, too, but his shirt just kept getting more tangled, until finally he tore it off in a huff and threw it to the corner of the tent.  His face was the reddest she’d ever seen.  “I hope you’re happy now,” he said, hunching in on himself and folding his arms across his bare chest._

_Fíriel sighed, crawled to the corner of the tent, and smoothed his shirt out.  “Here you go.”_

_“No,” he said, “now that it’s off it might as well stay there.  It knows what it did.  But, I’ll have you know, I wasn’t thinking about_ that _, not till you brought it up.  I was just… apparently,_ really _comfortable around you.  Can we forget it ever happened?”_

_“Consider it forgotten,” said Fíriel.  “Though… I do have to confess something to you.”_

_“Oh?”_

_She closed her eyes.  “I peeked, at the Gauntlet in the Temple.  I know you asked me not to, and I know how important your… modesty is to you, but my curiosity got the better of me._ Ir abelas _.”_

_“_ Oh _,” said Alistair.  “That was… well, at least you didn’t scream and run away in blind terror.  Besides, it’s not as if_ I _didn’t look, if that wasn’t already painfully obvious…”_

_“Can you forgive me?”_

_“Of course I can.  You just have to understand… I’m not used to being looked at, much less by the most beautiful woman in Thedas.”_

_“You mean ‘admired’?” said Fíriel, ignoring the compliment._

_“Well, I wouldn’t dare to presume—”_

_“Oh, I was_ definitely _admiring you, Alistair.  But if it makes you uncomfortable—”_

_“Not uncomfortable.”  His fingertips brushed her cheek, and she opened her eyes.  “Not if it’s just the two of us.”_

_She took a deep breath, and slowly dragged her gaze down his torso, all the way to his navel._

_Alistair’s eyes slid shut.  “Oh,” he breathed.  “Oh,_ wow _.”_

_Before she could stop herself, she reached over to touch him, marveling at the firm muscle under her fingertips, and he shuddered.  “Alistair?” she said._

_“Hm?”_

_“Why haven’t we?”_

_He opened his eyes.  “Why haven’t we… what?”_

_She cut him off, before he could come up with any more ridiculous euphemisms.  “Lain together, as a man and a woman.”_

_He stared at her for a moment, up and down, and swallowed audibly.  “I… don’t know?”_

_“I keep of thinking of all the reasons I used to have not to, and they all seem so silly now.  Do you want to?”_

_“What,_ now _?”  He laughed.  “I mean, not that I want to seem… over-eager…”  He sighed, and passed his hand over his brow.  “I must sound like a fool.  It’s just that I’ve never done this—with_ anyone _.”_

_“And I have?”  She trailed her hand over to his arm, and squeezed it.  “We’d figure it out together, the same way we have with everything else.”_

_“I know we would,” said Alistair.  “And it’s not that I haven’t been thinking about it.  But whenever I do, I feel like a bumbling idiot, all hands.  I wish I could be better at this…  I want it to be_ right _.”_

_“Alistair,” she said, gazing deep into his eyes, “you are all I have left.  I think this is as right as it gets.”_

_“With the darkspawn on our heels, death awaiting us at every turn?  Hot.”  He paused.  “But Fíriel, you’re in mourning.  If… if you’re just looking for comfort, or you’re going to regret it tomorrow, I can’t—”_

_“I’m not,” said Fíriel.  “I want this, because you’re the only man I can imagine doing this with, and I’m tired of waiting.  I want to be yours.”_

_“Well,” he murmured, “that’s—I suppose it isn’t a terrible reason…” and then his lips were on hers, stealing her breath from her, his hands caressing her back, her hair, her face, and she was clinging to him, clutching at his shoulders as he moved down her neck to her collarbone…_

_“You’re sure?” he said, propping himself up over her.  “Asking while I can still tear myself away.”_

_Fíriel laughed.  “Of_ course _I’m sure!” she said, swatting him on the nose.  “As long as you are.”_

_“Well, if I keep talking about it I’ll start second-guessing everything,” said Alistair.  “So maybe…” he added, dipping his head back down to her, “I’ll just stop talking now…”_


	16. Chapter 16

Dawn finds them nestled in each other’s arms in the King’s Wood, dressed for warmth.  He wakes with the sunrise and begins tearing down the campsite, burying the coals and scattering the bones of their meal, while she slumbers.

She doesn’t wake until she reaches for him and he’s not there.  Huan, predictably, sees her predicament and decides that licking her face is an acceptable way to finish dragging her from the Beyond.  Her arms flail against the ground, and as she wipes the slobber from her face she hears Alistair’s laughter from a distance.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says.

“Morning?” she mutters, sitting up.  “What’s good about it?”

“We’re alive?”

“Fair enough,” she says, and she rises to her feet and picks up her armor.  “Incidentally, we are never letting the dog in our tent.”

“Is there even room?”

“Not this tent—the next one.  The one we get after we’ve stopped the Blight.”

He joins her and helps her into her armor, though he can’t seem to resist running his fingers up and down spine.  “Wait, the Blight ends and the best we get is a bigger tent?  Come on, _one_ of the inns is going to put us up for life after that—maybe not in the best room in the house, but it’ll be _a_ room—with a bed!  Maybe even a window!”

She has to correct him on some of the lacing.  “And be stuck in one place?   Aren’t you worried you’ll get bored?”

“Quite looking forward to it, actually, assuming that it happens.”  He tightens the last strap, kissing her waist, and reaches for his own armor.  “As long as it’s us.”

“It will be,” she says as she returns the favor, and the memories of last night return to her, and she knows it’s true.  Her hands still.

“Say,” Alistair says, “what was it you were saying last night, if you remember?  Well—saying’s rather an understatement, really, but, pretty as it sounds, I still can’t follow you when you switch to elvish…”

Fíriel swallows, studies the ground in her shame.  At the time, it felt so irrevocably _right_ , but she never asked him, and she doesn’t even know if it’s something he wants.  “I asked Dirthamen to bless our union,” she says.  “I should have asked you first, but I didn’t, and for that I apologize.”  She sighs.  “I thought I was doing so well, too.”

She feels his hand under hers, pulling her up.  “You asked the _god of secrets_ to bless our—is this something naughty?”

“No!  No, it’s not—”  She takes a deep breath.  “I… may have just bonded myself to you.  And I’ll admit, I wasn’t thinking at all—or rather, I was, but it was more that I never wanted anything to come between us again, and—”

“You _what_?” he yelps.

“I’m sorry!” she says, clapping a hand over her mouth, but she can’t take the vows back, nor does she want to.

“How?  I mean, assuming you’re saying what I think you’re saying—wouldn’t we need witnesses?  Somehow I don’t think the Dalish would accept Huan’s testimony.”

“That’s why I called on Dirthamen.  Normally, the Keeper would bind us, and we’d call on a different god, but in times of war or great hardship, Dirthamen offers another way.  Speak the final vows in loving, and they’re just as binding as the full ceremony.  Of course, it’s expected that you’ll swear to Sylaise, or Mythal, or whoever you choose, in front of the clan as soon as you get the chance…”  _Not_ , she thinks _, that anyone would let me._

“And you couldn’t have waited for me to ask you?  Does it even count, if I didn’t get to promise anything in return?”

“I don’t know!  I wasn’t thinking!”

“ _Apparently_.”

She doesn’t reply to that; she can’t reply; she’s just thinking, over and over, that she’s driven him away with something that she’d thought would guarantee they’d stay together.

He’s donning the rest of his armor, and she wants to help him, but she doesn’t know if he’d welcome it so she hangs back, twisting her hands.

“Stop that,” he says.

“What?”

He isn’t even looking at her.  “You’re moping; I can tell.  Well, I hate to inform you, but you’ve had three whole days to mope, now, and if you keep it up you’re going to have to start paying me.”

“ _What_?” she sputters.  “Why?”

“I had the market on moping _cornered_ at the start of this Blight, I’ll have you know.  If you’re going to start doing it for a living, I want my cut.”  He turns around and folds his arms, raising a brow in challenge.

She makes an effort to tamp down a smile.  “But I _hurt_ you,” she says.

“No, you didn’t; you just did something beautifully romantic that happened to mess up all the lovely plans I’d made to propose to you after the Landsmeet.  And let’s be honest—I’d probably have messed it up anyway, seeing as the Chantry would have made you give up your gods before they’d marry us, and I didn’t even _want_ to think how a conversation with one of your Keepers would go.  I was _thinking_ Orzammar, but of course they’re clear on the other side of Ferelden and we’re a bit pressed for time, so—”

He would say he’s babbling, she knows, and she also knows he’s saying far more than he’d ever admit, but the only words that her mind registers are ‘propose’ and ‘marry.’  “ _Alistair_?”

He gets this irked look on his face, strides over to her, sinks to his knees, and takes both her hands in his.  “Marry me, Fíriel.”

“But I’ve already—”

“Then let me marry _you_.  I’m not letting all my lovely plans go to waste just because you moved up the timetable.”

“How?”

“Well, you took out all the bits of your ceremony that required a Keeper, right?  I’ll just take out all the bits that require a Chantry.”  He pulls a ring off his finger.  “Here, we’re supposed to exchange rings.”  He slides it onto her thumb, and it nearly slides off the moment he lets go.  “All right, not a perfect plan…”  He lifts her mother’s amulet from her neck and slides the ring onto the chain.  “There, that should do.  Now, you do the same.”  When she hesitates, he adds in a low voice, “Assuming, of course, that you’ll have me.”

She nods, a sudden lump in her throat, and hands him one of her rings.

“All right, now, the last time I attended one of these, I was eight years old and got thrown out halfway through, so… I might be making up some of the words.”

She laughs, and he stands, still holding both of her hands.

“In the eyes of the Maker, his Bride the Holy Andraste, and… this dog, I, Alistair”—he pauses, grimacing in thought, and the next word comes out as if he’d swallowed something particularly nasty—“ _Theirin_ , do take you, Fíriel Mahariel, of the Sabrae Clan of the Dalish elves, to be my lawfully wedded wife… to share the rest of my life with you—joy and sorrow, blessings and pain—and to love no woman but you”—and he smiles wickedly, as if she’s gotten him out of a dozen arranged marriages (which she supposes she has)—“to respect you and cherish you, and to be everything else a husband is supposed to be—so long as we both shall live.”  He drops her hands.  “That was terrible, wasn’t it?”

She reaches over and cups his cheek in her hand.  “It was _wonderful_.  But what’s this about as long as we live?”

“What, having second thoughts?”  He grins.  “Too late; you’re stuck with me now!  Unless—is marriage more temporary with the Dalish?”

“Hardly,” she says.  She smiles and takes his hands, translating as best as she can.  “As the tree is bound to the earth, Creators, so bind me to this man, the man I love, the man whose life I will share.  Make us one, Creators, as the forest is one, and let none tear us asunder, from this moment into _uthenera_.  Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, I call upon Thee to bless this our union, from this moment into _uthenera_ , amen.”

“Wow,” he says.  “That’s… that’s beautiful.”

“It’s not a perfect translation,” she says.  “But it’s what I meant, when I spoke last night.  The ancient _elvhen_ did not die, but passed into _uthenera_ , to wander the Beyond in dreams; and even though we die now, we craft our bonds to last as long as theirs do—into death, and beyond it into eternity.”

“What if we wind up in different places?”

She squeezes his hands.  “Then we find one another in the Beyond first, and if no one will take us then we make our own place.  I’m sure the Wardens will welcome us, though.”

“I can live with that,” Alistair says.  He kisses her.

Their marriage feast that morning is a bit of honeycomb—the surprise parcel Zevran had thrust into Alistair’s hands the day prior—and while it does little to sate their hunger, nothing could taste sweeter.  The water from the stream is cold and refreshing, and when they are ready to return to the city and the nobles, the sun is bright on their faces.

* * *

_Fíriel watched her fellow Warden silently.  Though he folded his bedroll with practiced hands, her own pack had been filled, stowed, and on her back shortly after sunrise—and he’d woken before her.  Alistair moved like a sleepwalker, and she suspected it was not without cause._

_She had seen grief like this once before, about five years ago, when they’d lost one of their hunters in an accident.  He had been bonded only two months prior, and for weeks after his widow had to be reminded to eat.  When Fíriel had asked Keeper Marethari what to do, she’d merely said that the widow needed time and the reassurance of the clan, and that grief was a mystery that could never be fully shared._

_They did not have the time Alistair needed.  The darkspawn were at their heels, and any time that distance bought them would need to go toward recruiting an army—somehow._

_“Warden Alistair,” she said._

_He continued tying his bedroll._

_“Alistair.”_

_He finished the last knot and sat back on his heels, eyes boring into the horizon._

_Finally she leaned down and cupped his cheek in her hand, as Ashalle had done so many times when Fíriel had been lost in her own mind.  It scratched her, though, and she jerked her hand back in shock._

_He blinked and looked at her.  “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head._

_“Come,” she said, not unkindly, and held out her hand to pull him to his feet.  “We must keep moving, if we’re to reach Lothering before the horde.”_

_He nodded once, and finished his packing in silence._

_“The horde is south, if you’d rather join your fellows,” Morrigan said.  “Doubtless you would be of more use among_ them _than you are here.”_

_“Morrigan,” Fíriel said.  “He isn’t useless; he’s in mourning.”_

_“And while he is mourning, he is useless.  If he_ must _mourn, he can do it after the Blight is over.”_

_“Don’t listen to her, Alistair,” Fíriel muttered, even though she knew Morrigan spoke truly—how much of herself had she had to bury since the day she’d lost Tamlen—in trying to find him, in following Duncan, in joining the Grey, and now this?_

_She had never thought she’d pity a_ shem _, but she did.  Fíriel resolved to let him mourn until he put them directly at risk, or until they reached Lothering—whichever came sooner.  He needed time._

_He surprised her when they stopped for food, though, seeking her out while Morrigan continued to scout ahead.  “Look,” he said, and she thought he was about to cry, “Morrigan’s right—I_ am _useless; I’m not even fit company right now, and—I just wanted to say, ‘I’m sorry.’  And if you agree, if I really am more trouble than I’m worth, I can just—”_

_“Don’t you dare,” she interrupted.  “I don’t know the first thing about the world of_ shemlen _, and I doubt Morrigan knows much more than I do.  How am I supposed to stop a Blight with no knowledge of your people?”_

_“You’re right,” he said, shaking his head.  “It would be incredibly rude of me to abandon you.”  He sighed.  “I don’t know what I was thinking. But I know I need to be doing more.  I just… I can’t.  Not yet.”_

_“You don’t have to,” said Fíriel.  “I’m happy to help you now, knowing you’ll help me later.”_

_“But I should have been back there,” he blurted out.  “With Duncan, and the others.  I should have—Maker, I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.  You’re being incredibly patient with me, aren’t you?  Thank you.”  He closed his eyes and took in a shaky breath.  “Actually, no, I know_ exactly _why I’m telling you all this.”_

_“Why?”_

_“The alternative is Morrigan.”  He tried smiling, but after a moment it slid into something painful. “Also—you’re the only one left.”_

_“_ We’re _the only ones left,” said Fíriel.  “And come what may, we have to see it through together.”_

_“Yep.  You’re stuck with me, now; sorry to disappoint you.”_

_She scoffed.  “You’re not_ that _bad—for a_ shem _.”_

_“Er… thanks?”_

_“Either way, if we’re the only two Wardens left in Ferelden, we’ll have to help one another.  So… let me know how I can help you with this, Alistair—even if it’s by doing nothing.”_

_“Can you shut Morrigan up?”_

_“I can try.”_

_“Thank you, Fíriel,” he said softly._

_And when Morrigan returned, Fíriel helped him to his feet once more._

_“Together?” Alistair whispered._

_Fíriel nodded.  “Together.”_

_Step by step, side by side, they walked down the hidden paths to the future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you _so_ much for reading my first foray into Firiel's story and my main exploration of the events in _Origins_!
> 
> If following the flashback sequences was unclear, knowing the quest order in my "canon" may help: Lothering, Redcliffe, Kinloch, Redcliffe, Return to Ostagar, Brecilian Forest, Denerim, Soldier's Peak, Haven, [Tamlen attacks], Honnleath, Orzammar, Landsmeet.
> 
> Also, some chapter-specific acknowledgments: some of the dialog in Chapter 15 is taken directly from the game if you proposition Alistair with a high enough approval for him to agree (heresy!). "Morning? What's good about it?" and the concept of marriage oaths spoken during sex are both shamelessly pilfered from Tolkien, as are Firiel's and Huan's names. "Amen" was used, despite its association with specific real-world religions, for scanning/poetic purposes, and because there's no equivalent word in the English language with the same sacred connotations.
> 
> Finally, in case anyone was worried or wondering--the Dark Ritual does occur in this worldstate. I hope to explore its psychological repercussions on these two in a subsequent fic.
> 
> See you around!!
> 
> \- Celeritas, 11/22/2017


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